


Altruism

by emptypockets



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Adventure, Family, Hurt/Comfort, Whump, and the fam having to deal with it, the doctor being self destructive for the greater good, themes that parallel the pandemic a bit but I STARTED THIS BEFORE THE PANDEMIC OKAY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-01-15 01:02:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 42,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21244946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emptypockets/pseuds/emptypockets
Summary: Altruism /ˈaltro͞oˌizəm/nounthe belief in or practice of selfless concern for the well-being of others.Matrovon 7, and it’s inhabitants, are dying. The Doctor can do something about that if she can just get to her feet.





	1. Fix It

**Author's Note:**

> I’m back with more character exploration through absolutely wrecking thirteen. This first chapter’s just a fun intro to get me back into the flow of writing these four. Let me know how I did!

“Fix it.”

“Do what now?” 

Despite initial protest, the Doctor introduced the basics of welding to Ryan recently, following a solid few weeks dedicated to teaching him just the bare basic mechanics of the TARDIS. It feels ever so dull, tediously practicing his straight lines and sharp corners on a metal slate as instructed (she really did insist on the importance of a steady hand), especially after filling his head with terms like  _ octiron filter lense _ and  _ omega core _ . 

Therefore, the Doctor’s out-of-nowhere company on the lower level beneath the console began as a merciful distraction, but the instant he saw her madly reach into the core of the TARDIS and disconnect something that sparked in protest, Ryan’s relief morphed into unease. 

The welding helmet sits heavy on his head, uncomfortably hugs the space around his ears so he yanks it off, freeing his senses. Maybe he misheard her.

The loving, excited tap that the Doctor gives the fist sized, sort of pyramid shaped object in her hand is accompanied with what might be the most enthusiastic smile Ryan’s ever seen. She’s practically vibrating with glee. “Fix it! You know you want to.” She repeats, waving it about like a tempting slice of cake. 

The flame of the torch retreats and Ryan sets it and his helmet on the Doctor’s work bench behind him. He lets out a slow breath, discards of his gloves, then clasps his hands atop his head in exasperation. “Not sure about that.” 

“Come on, Ryan, it can’t be that intimidating.” The Doctor lowers her eyes to the little machine, a spark of energy and light pulsing within and making it seem so very alive before it dims back to nothing. After giving it an irritated, vigorous jiggle, she twists off one of the sealed ends and peers inside. “I’ve got a spare if this one goes kaput, so it’s perfect practice, innit?.” 

“Practice for what? We didn’t exactly cover vortex energy… stuff in NVQ.” 

“No, but  _ we _ covered the science behind dematerialization a couple weeks ago. Well, a fraction of a fraction, but that just means there’s plenty more learning to be done! This is a dematerialization circuit, remember?” At Ryan’s hesitant nod, she elaborates. “See these here? Those are the recursive time filaments. They’re starting to fizzle out - well - they started to fizzle out a long time ago, but better late than never, right?” 

He’s still overwhelmed, brow pinched as he tries to take in every word. “What am I meant to do, then?”

The Doctor pushes the object into his hand, drops to a crouch and fishes through a drawer of tools, gadgets and not one, but two rubber chickens. She tosses a couple unneeded items over her shoulder (not the chickens though) and stands with a handful of thin blue wires and crystalline adapters. “Vortex energy is dependent on the recursive time filaments to maneuver it into the proper channels for accurate materialization. Needs a bit of rewiring, and we should probably change those conductors while we’re at it.” She nods to the circuit’s home. 

At least she’s not throwing him to the wolves solo, Ryan thinks, which is good, because she’s gonna need to say all that at least another three times. 

Uneasiness steadily turns to intrigue, and he ducks his head to get a closer look. “Is this why we just about never end up where we’re aiming for?” 

“Yes and no.” The Doctor mouths around a wire pinched between her teeth. “The navigation system as a whole has been faulty from the start. There’s usually no such thing as pinpoint accuracy. But if these filaments were to stop working all together, we’d be more likely to materialize at the core of the sun than wherever we were trying for.” 

“Fair enough.” 

The Doctor hands him what vaguely resembles a pair of tweezers. “Venusian titanium. Regulates the energy in case you bump something you shouldn’t. Regular metal would give you a nasty time shock.” 

Ryan can’t help the laugh that bubbles from his chest as he sets the circuit on the workbench and plops onto the stool. “_Time_ _shock_?”

“Don’t be fooled by the simplicity of the term, Ryan.” She looks a tad offended. “Very painful, often deadly.” 

“You came up with that term didn’t you?” 

The scrunch of her face and sudden division of interest is his answer, and Ryan chuckles with a fond shake of his head. 

The Doctor directs him simply, and brilliantly. Loosen that bit, remove that bit,  _ don’t touch that bit _ . They fall into a quiet, easy rhythm, and Ryan can almost understand how the Doctor so easily spends hours upon hours down here doing maintenance. 

It’s really fascinating. 

He removes a particularly rough looking filament upon instruction, and a hiss of what looks like steam but probably isn’t makes him jump back. “Whoa!” He coughs once and waves his hands to clear the obstruction. “What was that?” 

“Bit of the eighties. Nothing to worry about.” She assures, but inches nearer to monitor more closely. “Just go slowly.” 

Ryan finds himself holding his breath as he fastens the replacement filament into place. It assumes it’s natural glow once connected, and he feels a strong sense of accomplishment. 

“Gold star, Ryan.” The Doctor beams proudly, clapping him on the shoulder. “Right, plug her back in. 

She guides him through this bit too, once again emphasizing the importance of a steady hand, and helps him secure the conductors to each end of the circuit. 

When he plugs in the last one, the TARDIS roars to life. 

The Doctor lifts her head in surprise just before the force nearly tips them both off their feet. She manages to catch a grip, eyes narrowed in careful consideration and fixed on the maybe not so repaired circuit. 

Ryan on the other hand loses his balance and crashes onto his side, unphased by the impact and immediately sitting up on his elbows. “Was that me?!”

“Couldn’t have been. Doesn’t work like that.” The TARDIS rocks and jolts them side to side before finally landing with a trademark thud. “It was something though.” 

* * *

“ _ Oh _ , you’re kidding.” 

“Ow! Are we moving?” 

It was a really good cup of tea, Yaz reminisces with a twinge of grief as she sets down the now empty mug to nurse her burnt hand. Graham’s cup went flying right out of his grasp and halfway across the console room, and he frowns at the resulting mess. 

“That was the last of the Kinstarno brew.” He mourns. “Think the Doc will take us back?” 

“She’ll do just about anything you want if you refill the custard cream with the ‘real earth ones’.” Yaz snickers, recalling the Doctor’s bitter insistence that the TARDIS’s recipe was just off somehow. “But hold on, what just happened? No one touched the controls.” Instead of waiting for speculation, she crosses the console room descends the stairs to the lower level just halfway. “Ryan, what did you do?” 

“Nothing! The Doctor said it wasn’t me!” He steps into her field of view with hands raised innocently, one still curled around a small tool. “Right?” 

“Right.” The Doctor’s voice confirms, and Yaz hears the clank of a panel door closing. She walks to join Ryan and pauses, hands on her hips, head tilted back and half her grease streaked face scrunched a bit more than the other. “You didn’t touch anything, did you Yaz?” 

“Me?” She gawks. “‘Course not! You two are the ones mucking about down there.”

“You didn’t push a really tempting button? I wouldn’t blame you — do it all the time myself.” 

“No!” She insists, forcing the word through a laugh. “Although, I am still waiting for you to at least teach me some of the controls. You look like a madman hopping about when you fly us somewhere.”

“Oi, I’ve managed perfectly over multiple millenia on my own, thank you very much.” 

“You’re teaching Ryan things! Not fair, is it?” She shoots back playfully. 

“That’s different. Ryan’s learning, and interested in practical tasks that I wouldn’t mind having the time cut in half.” The Doctor admits. “Do you want to know what a chronoton inhibitor node is?” 

“I’m sure you’ll end up telling me at some point regardless.” Yaz hears Graham’s approaching footsteps before he makes it to her peripheral. 

“Graham, do you want to learn how to weld or something?” The Doctor inquires, half serious.

“No ta, Doc.” He stops with a hand on the rail. “Have we landed somewhere?”

“Seems like it.” She hurriedly ascends the stairs two at a time with Ryan close at her heels until she reaches the controls. With hands braced against the console she bends forward, eyes narrowed at the unhelpfully blank monitor, deducing. 

The door creaks open on Ryan’s accord once his curiosity grows impatient. The Doctor calls after him, and instead of returning he’s carelessly joined by the equal curiosity of Yaz and Graham. 

Yaz takes one step onto the pale grass and she immediately feels like she needs a shower. The humidity is thick, warm and uncomfortable against her skin. 

The sky is grey, and something about it looks unnatural, and a bit sick. It’s hard to say - alien planet and all. 

“You can’t just run off on me like that!” The Doctor scolds worriedly once she’s joined them. “We could be anywhere. Dunno a thing about this place.” 

“What’s the matter with the sky?” Graham tilts his head back. “Those are some hefty clouds.”

“Looks artificial, if you ask me.” Skepticism pulls the Doctor’s face into a frown. “And a bit like pollution.” 

“Well this is a dud.” Yaz sighs. “Still no idea why we’re here?” 

“Nope.” She drops to a crouch to grab a fistful of grass and holds it to her nose, inhaling deeply. A couple blades are dropped between her lips and she promptly spits them out, raking at her tongue with her nails. “Yuck.” She spits, and sneezes violently.

“Not allergic to the planet are you, Doctor?” Ryan teases as he braves a hill, wobbling briefly on the way to the top. “Er — guys? Few more steps.” 

The three exchange a look and jog up the incline. The perspective reveals a low valley, compacted with an entire civilization. Buildings short and tall, wide and thin, and Yaz can’t distinguish what’s a residence and what isn’t. It all looks a bit… worse for wear though. Anticlimactic for a mysterious planet. 

“There.” The Doctor points to a prominently large structure in the dead center, obsidian black and shaped a bit like a shopping mall. “Who wants to bet that’s where the big man is. Or big woman, or big neither.” Her inquiry is obviously rhetorical, and she’s already sprinting forward. 

“Doctor, wait!” Yaz tries fruitlessly, exchanges an annoyed and familiar glance with the boys, and then they’re hurrying after her. 


	2. Selfish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody else die inside yesterday after DW Twitter posted that vague “watch this space” image then never got a follow up??? I know I’m impatient but geez

It’s quiet, apart from the sound of shoes against dusty ground. The promise of night begins to tug the sun under the horizon, rendering the air increasingly cool, and the Doctor stuffs her chilling hands in her pockets. 

“Seems dead to me, Doc.” Graham muses, eyes skating over unkempt lawns and vehicles that don’t appear to have seen a wash in years.

“Maybe,” she considers, then points to the rustling of a curtain behind a residence’s window. “Not empty, though.” 

Yaz’s feet take her in the home’s direction, but she stops at the edge of the property. “Look. They’ve got some sort of sealing around their front door.” 

“So do they.” Ryan crosses the short distance to a neighboring house for closer inspection. “Windows too.” 

“They all do.” The lines on the Doctor’s forehead become more prominent as an uneasy feeling settles in her gut. “Let’s keep moving. Ghosttown HQ is right up there.”

The three humans chuckle at her joke and stride on, unbothered and entirely unaware. 

She instinctively takes her position at the front of the group when they reach the focus of the town. Sliding glass doors stand in their way, and the Doctor cups her hands around her eyes as she presses her face against them.

“There’s another set of doors past these.” She informs. On the wall to the left inside the cubed space is what looks like a coat rack, holding a short supply of an aged take on gas masks instead of outerwear. That does nothing to ease her mind. 

“We should probably go back to the TARDIS.” Her hearts aren’t in the statement in the least, and instead of turning back she knocks. Loudly. 

Curiosity reaches its peak for Ryan, Graham and Yaz as they move to her sides, squinting to peer through tinted glass. 

On the other side of the second set of doors, a figure comes into view and stops in its tracks like it’s doing a double take. It plunges to one side to hit a button on the wall, and the doors nearest to the travellers slide open. 

“I’d consider that an invitation.” The Doctor steps inside and nods encouragingly for her friends to follow. 

The next bit happens too quickly for her to take any action. The doors snap shut behind them, there’s a hiss of released compression, and thick steam billows down like a waterfall from the ceiling. 

For a moment, she panics, and so do the others. The sound of coughing and spluttering comes from her back as Yaz, Ryan and Graham try to dispel the substance from their lungs, but her own concern ebbs. The tang that hits the back of her throat is familiar. Sterile, safe.

“It’s alright!” She hollers over the sound. “It’s just disinfectant! Won’t hurt you!” 

On cue, the steam ceases flow and dissipates all together. Yaz waves her hand around her face to clear any remnants. “That was a bit excessive.” 

“Disinfectant for what?” Ryan inquires, and rightfully so. 

That is the question, isn’t it.

The remaining barrier slides open and a flabbergasted, antsy man, humanoid in appearance, shoves a hand in his hair as he steps forward. “What the hell were you thinking?!” 

The Doctor presses her lips into a thin line. “I probably wasn’t. What’s the problem here?” 

“What do you mean what’s the-” He shakes his head in clear shock. “You can’t be walking around out there without a gas mask!” 

Graham is the first to react, eyes going wide as he pulls the collar of his jacket over his mouth and nose. “What?”

“It’s safe in here, don’t worry.” He scratches the side of his head, looking utterly lost. “How do you not know?” 

“Why don’t we skip that bit. Hello, I’m the Doctor.” She extends a hand, and the man just stares. 

“ _ You’re _ the Doctor?” 

Ooh. That’s interesting. “That’s me. What’s your name?” 

Building any sort of personal connection seems to be the last thing on his list, and he turns heel. “Come with me.” 

Before any of them move, Yaz leans in close to the Doctor’s ear. “Doctor, are we safe?” 

“Think so.” She’s not sure yet, really. “Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

“Is he human?” Ryan asks. 

“Definitely not. Eyes and fingers are a dead giveaway.” 

“Hurry up, will you?” The man turns back to snap, and earns a closer inspection upon doing so. 

She’s right. He’s human upon first glance, but his fingertips are squared at the ends. Eyes are just a bit too small, their coloring a bit too… different. Pupils blown wide. 

“We’re coming, mate, we’re coming.” Graham defends. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” 

The unfamiliar phrase that would make a human male scowl doesn’t draw the slightest reaction out of the figure before him. 

The hallways they’re led through are so littered and unkempt the Doctor can’t even tell what purpose the building used to serve. Abstract art that decorates the walls is covered with thick layers of dust. Maintenance doesn’t seem to be the slightest priority. 

They’re led to a closed door, and the man turns to face her. 

“Just you.” He nods to the Doctor, then turns to the others. “You three need to come with me.” 

Their protests all mix together in a cacophony of disapproval, but her voice stands out high above. 

“We’re not big fans of being split up.” The Doctor tilts her head. “I presume you have good reason.” 

That look of surprise is back, taking over his entire demeanor before he visibly recollects their initial interaction and shifts from exasperated, to firmly informative. “You’ve been exposed to mass amounts of meziopholium. We’ve got a half finished antibiotic that might not do you much good after wandering about outside.”

Three pairs of wide, frightened eyes home in on her questioningly, searching for reassurance, and she provides it easily with a calm expression and relaxed shoulders. She’s familiar with meziopholium. A bacteria that resides in the air, growing, accumulating, spreading and worsening. Luckily, completely non toxic to humans. And Time Lords, but she’s got a genetic advantage to thank for that. 

“Go with him. You’ll be alright.” He’ll figure out they’re not indiginous soon enough, and it’ll give her fewer distractions to analyze the matter at hand. 

“But Doctor —” Yaz is staring deep into her eyes, worry still apparent. 

“— Go with him, Yaz .” She emphasizes, voice steady but leaving no room for arguments. With a collective drop in morale, her friends do as they’re told. 

The Doctor turns to face the door and doesn’t waste a moment before letting herself inside. 

There’s another man. Taller, older than the other. The wear of stress visible on his face through lines that stand out strong and a permanently exhausted pallor. He’s sat at a desk, glasses resting on the bridge of his nose and focus solely on the computer screen before him.

Awkwardly, she clears her throat to make her presence known, and when the man’s eyes find hers he stands abruptly. 

“What are you doing in here?” He demands. “Civilians are to remain in their homes.” 

“Ah, but you see, I’m not a civilian.” She doesn’t bother extending a hand this time, expecting a familiar reaction. “I’m the Doctor.” 

A hybrid look of recognition and confusion crosses over his features. “ _ You’re _ the Doctor.” It’s not as much of a question as it was before, more disbelieving. 

“If the whole woman thing is throwing you, don’t let it.” 

“So you used to be a man?” 

“Sure did. Thought I’d mix things up a bit this time, you know?” 

His lack of reaction to her casual, vague reference to regeneration seals the deal that this man knows exactly who she is. 

He takes a deep breath, expression motionless, like he’s considering what to do. Unfamiliar with these people and their habits, the Doctor can’t help but fear the impromptu mission going sour. Wouldn’t necessarily be off-brand if it did. 

“My name’s Branton.” He finally provides, and gestures to a worn chair opposite of himself. “Will you take a seat?” 

“Happily.” She complies. 

Branton folds his hands together and rests them below his chin, silent, just staring at her. She feels like she’s being analyzed, figured out, and she squirms in discomfort. 

He seems to be waiting for her to speak first for some reason, so she doesn’t waste anymore time. “How do you know me?” 

One brow lifts in tired surprise, and he leans back in his chair. “My father told me about you.” 

Curiouser. “Did he? What was his name?” 

“Branson.” 

“Very original.” She praises. “Is he around?” 

His eyes are filled with something closer to anger than grief. “He and my mother died a long time ago.” 

Tension, caution and the yellow alert ringing in the back of her head are all momentarily forgotten and overpowered by sympathy. Her eyes soften. “I’m so sorry.” 

Branton’s expression doesn’t shift, and he ignores her sentiment. 

The silence is back and if the Doctor didn’t know any better, she’d say he was waiting for an explanation. 

She doesn’t have one, so she doesn’t try providing one. Instead, she tries to learn more. She’s here to help, after all. “So your planet has been polluted by meziopholium, but that’s not natural occurring. It was artificially constructed eons ago by the —”

“— The Vivrok’s, yes.”

“So you were invaded.” 

“Initially, yes we were.” Branton leans forward to rest his elbows on the desk. “Our systems picked up on their signal before they were close enough to do any harm, we thought. At the time our weaponry was sophisticated enough to blast them right out of the sky in two seconds flat. Suppose they picked up on that.” 

“So they got creative.” The Doctor concludes. “Polluted the air to make it inhabitable for you.” 

“We didn’t understand that at first. Couldn’t make sense of the strange clouds.” His focus drifts somewhere far away. “Then people started getting ill.” 

“And started dying.” She feels his calloused grief radiating in waves. “Is that what happened to your parents?” 

The return of that painful silence is her answer, and Branton’s eyes find hers again. This time they’re cold, challenging. “He sent for you, you know.” 

She doesn’t remember that, but that’s not unusual. There’s a lot of stuff packed into her head. “I don’t recall ever meeting him. How did he know me?” 

Branton’s laugh is chilling. “There are stories of you all across the universe. You must know this.” 

She does, and wishes there weren’t. 

“You were our only hope.” He challenges. “And then the bacteria wiped out over half of our people.” 

Ah.

She’s understanding now, brimming with disappointment in her younger self. She wasn’t always designated savior of the universe - much more concerned with the sight seeing and the showing off. But even in the early days it seems very... unlikely for her to avoid such an easy house call altogether. In the early stages of invasion, this would have been a piece of cake. 

“What planet is this?”

“Matrovon 7.”

_ Oh _ . 

They taught about Matrovon 7 in the academy so ruthlessly she’ll probably never forget. A planet who’s very core emits non-stop waves of a very rare, psychically overactive form of radiation. Highly toxic to telepathic species. They were advised countless times to never, ever set foot on Matrovon 7. 

Her younger self received the distress call, identified it’s source, and was too afraid of dying to answer it. 

Too selfish to save countless lives. 

The Doctor’s very essence floods with guilt, but her words come out stronger than she feels. “I’m here now. Let me help.” 

And Branson just nods. Expecting nothing less. 

The bacteria won’t kill her, but the planet will.  _ That _ sounds more like her luck. 

Still, it changes nothing. 

This time, she’s not running away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlike last time I’m posting each chapter as I write it, and y’all know how it goes. Reviews are fueling and encouraging, and let me know if I made any mistakes!! (and follow me on twitter if you have one -@striking_twelve. i’m attempting to make the switch from tumblr)


	3. Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this was dead for a bit there but I got my second wind! Thank you s12 trailer

“So you’re… human.” 

“As human as they come.” Graham has one hand extended warily to stop the alien in his tracks. “And I didn’t take  _ Space Travel 101 _ but I’m pretty sure taking alien medication is something we should check with our Doctor on first.” 

The man closes his fist around the rejected offering of two dull green tablets and looks to his left. “Are all of you human?” 

“Us three, yeah.” Ryan informs.

“Not the Doctor, though.” Yaz adds hastily. “She’s —”

“A Time Lord, I know.” He has his back to them now, shuffling through a drawer in the otherwise unoccupied medical bay. A disarray of empty beds, well worn pillows and forgotten blankets that have the history of their original owners in the form of rips, stains and faded colors.

“How do you know her?” Graham asks the back of his head, and is met with deliberate silence.

The three share a wary glance. “What’s your name?” Yaz tries instead. 

“Griffon.” When he turns to face them again there’s a syringe in his hand, and it sends alarm bells off in the humans’ skulls. “Do humans have veins?” 

“Whoa.” Ryan steps back instinctively while Yaz and Graham tense. “If tablets are off the table I don’t think needles are exactly a step up.” 

Griffon shakes his head distractedly. “No, it’s just for a blood sample. Assuming you have blood.” 

“And why do you need our blood?” Yaz stalls. 

“Because if the atmosphere is as toxic to you as it is to us then you need to know.” He says sternly. “And if it’s not, then I need to know, because we could really use a few sets of invincible hands right now.” 

Graham’s eyes maintain a tight hold on Griffon’s as he scans them for any hint of ill intent. Any sign of deception, any glimpse of an evil heart, and he finds nothing besides a disguised cry for help. He looks so tired. So worn. So done. 

Graham flattens his lips thoughtfully, consults his fellow non-natives with a quirk of his brow. “Sounds reasonable to you lot?” 

“What does it do to you?” Ryan wonders aloud, momentarily off track. “The toxin. Does it make you ill? Sprout a second nose?” 

The Mantrovonian’s face just hardens. 

“Doesn’t give you a sense of humor, then.” Ryan mutters, and Yaz thumps the back of her hand against his shoulder. 

Griffon’s shoulder’s visibly tense with a palpable impatience.. “Blood analysis now, questions later.” An unsaid  _ please _ hangs off the end of his sentence. Loud enough and desperate enough for Yaz to nod and Ryan to shrug.

“Go on then.” Graham offers his arm, and the Mantrovonian sighs with obvious relief.

* * *

“Tell me more about this so called antibiotic.” The Doctor has assumed an aura of urgency. Determination filters her voice into a brisk tone that doesn’t miss a beat. Boots sound against the floor as she paces, gaze homed in on something unseen in her mind’s eye. “Because if you’ve got that - not sure  _ how _ you’ve got that but if you do - people shouldn’t still be dying, right?” 

“It’s not an antibiotic. That’s just hopeful phrasing.” Branton’s head is deathly still, clasped hands shielding the lower half of his face as irritated eyes follow the Doctor’s movements. “It’s not an immunization, not a cure, but Griffon being the idiot he is spent about half an hour outside with no gas mask to try it out, and he’s been fine since.” 

“Griffon’s the paper thin bloke?” The Doctor asks, and Branton hums in confirmation. “Half an hour could be a blessing to people who can’t leave their homes. Why haven’t you shared it?” 

“Because the goal isn’t half an hour. These people deserve complete freedom. Not just from their homes, but from their... fear.” He presses his forehead into his knuckles. “The claustrophobia has already killed plenty. They can’t take it anymore, so they go outside. Or they worry about their friend round the corner too much and go to check on them. Some can last minutes before they’re contaminated — or some can last seconds, some can’t last even that — will you  _ stop pacing _ for a second?” 

The Doctor wrinkles her nose, displeased, but comes to a halt right in front of him.

Branton takes a breath, rechanneling his energy, and continues. “Thirty minutes for Griffon could be ten for the next. We’d end up doing more harm than good. The goal is to turn the equation into an fully functioning medicine to fight it off, but he hasn’t made any more progress.” 

“I counted six gask masks back there.” She nods over her shoulder, raising another option. “If it’s just the two of you here then that’s four that aren’t being used. Have you tried giving the public access to them?

“Of course we tried.” Branton hisses impatiently. “Three hundred and twenty-six living, desperate Mantrovonians with four gask masks. It caused an uproar. Lots of fighting, lots of riots. By the next day the body count was way up, and the living dropped below three hundred.”

“How many living are left, including the two of you?”

“One hundred and forty-seven.” Branton drags his palms down his face, exasperated. “No one’s died for a few days. They’re finally looking at the bigger picture I suppose. Staying inside.” He sighs, loud and heavy through his nose. “This isn’t just about losing friends and family members anymore. We’re facing extinction.”

The Doctor presses her lips into a thin line, eyes scanning the space around her as if it holds answers. “Why’d Griffon stop at thirty minutes?”

“He didn’t.” The lines on Branton’s forehead seem to grow more prominent with every word, like recapping the failures are sucking the life from his very being. “He was set on seeing how long he could last, but I dragged him back inside before he could find out. I can’t lose him too.” 

A small smile, sad and automatic like clockwork. “You two have been through a lot, I gather.” 

“Yes,” Branton rests unsteady hands on his desk. “But I mean I  _ actually _ can’t lose him. We’re the only two left, actually trying to figure things out. Everyone else is dead or with their families. I don’t have his scientific knowledge. He’s Mantrovon’s only hope.” He sits back heavily in his chair. “Unless you have any bright ideas.” 

The Doctor breathes out adrenaline heavily through her nose, stance firmly set and chin high with optimism. “I think I might. I’d like to speak a bit more with this Griffon, though. He should be finishing up with my friends by now, yeah?” 

He nods shallowly, and lifts an index finger to hold her still a moment longer. “Are Time Lords susceptible to meziopholium?”

“Nah, way too good for that.” She outright brags, and wastes no time in turning heel to whip the office door open. “My friends aren’t Time Lords, though.” 

Branton puts his hands on the arms of his chair and stands. He’s much taller upright, standing a good two heads above her own. “What are they?” 

“Human.” She leans back against the doorframe, a pleased smile brightening her eyes. “As human as they come.” 

As Branton passes her by and starts down the hallway, he asks over his shoulder with little interest, “Are humans susceptible to meziopholium?”

“They’re also way too good for that.” The Doctor beams, thankful.

As she’s pushing herself off the doorframe there’s a pulse in the back of her head. Dull, easy enough to breathe through, not so easy to ignore as it sends a quick haze over her vision - just intense enough for her to ease back against the frame again. Get her bearings. Refocus. 

The blur dissipates and the Doctor’s mind clears. “Indestructible, they are. For once.” Hesitant, lacking a touch of her usual confidence, she steps after Branton and adds, under her breath, barely a whisper. “Good for them.” 

* * *

Yaz, Ryan and Graham, beautifully inquisitive and curious as they always are, pounce on her in a heap of questions and exclamations before she’s taken two steps into the medical bay. Overwhelming curiosity and a whiff of what Graham has previously identified as his stress sweat (disgusting) hanging in the air hits her like a brick.

“Hold on, one at a time! ” She steadies. Usually it’s her own unintelligible overenthusiasm that earns the  _ chill out!  _

“What’s mee-zino-phonium ?” Ryan drags out each syllable as its own question. 

“Meziopholium.” She corrects. “And it can’t hurt you, but it’s killing these people.” 

“Could’ve mentioned that bit earlier before our new best mate hustled off to the lab.” Graham’s still rolling his sleeve back down to his wrist. “Says it’ll be a big help if we’re able to go outside.” 

“Who’s he?” Yaz slips in at the next beat, nodding towards the sizeable man standing dead still over the Doctor’s shoulder. 

“Oh him? That’s  _ my _ new best mate Branton —”

“ — I’ll go and fetch Griffon.” He doesn’t exactly interrupt her, but leaves no room for follow-ups before disappearing down the hall. Not one for small talk, then. 

“Don’t mind him, he’s got good reason to be rude.” The Doctor dismisses distractedly, shakes her head and folds her hands together. Centers her focus. “Okay. Need to catch you lot up.” 

“What planet are we on?” Yaz asks. 

“Mantrovon 7.” The Doctor informs. “A few decades ago their atmosphere was poisoned with Meziopholium. Alright for us, but… not so much for them.” She gets lost for an instant, her own words drawing the ache of guilt back to the surface. Impossible to ignore. Pounding at her chest, begging to be alleviated. “I can help.” She fastforwards. The drive to reach the finish line is already unbearable, her feet itching to move, her hands twitching to solve. “I can save the rest of them.”

“How are you gonna do that?” Ryan can’t help but ask. 

“How can we help?” Yaz’s eyes brim with a sudden, familiar need to contribute. 

“I can be a doctor of medicine when I need to be.” She holds Ryan’s gaze for a moment to communicate her seriousness, then flicks it to Yaz. “And that’s a very good question, Yaz. Fifteen points — the extra five’s for being kind. Never let me forget to give you extra points for being kind.” Her head’s starting to feel a bit floaty again. The Doctor resists the urge to shut her eyes. “I don’t know yet, but given the four beings in this room are the only ones able to go outdoors for longer than a few minutes I’m sure there will be plenty.” The wave comes and goes, her body straightens, and her tone darkens with severity. “These people need our help, and there’s a lot we can do. We’re not going home until they’re safe. Alright with that?” 

She doesn’t need anyone dragging her back to the TARDIS before the job is done.

Yaz’s stance strengthens to match the Doctor’s own. “Of course.” 

“Sounds like a plan.” Ryan’s as easy-going as ever.

“Why we’re here, isn’t it?” Graham offers. 

“We’re here because the Doctor let Ryan try and fix something that he probably broke instead.” Yaz corrects, tongue in cheek, bumping Ryan with her shoulder because sometimes she just can’t pass up an opportunity to tease him. 

“No, that wasn’t me, remember?” Ryan defends, incredulous. “The Doctor said!” 

“Oh yeah,” the Doctor hums, absentminded. “Forgot about all that.” 

They all find themselves side-eyeing the door, waiting for their hosts to return. Minds wandering individually. 

“Got to ask, Doc, how’s Mantrovon 6 holding up?” If it’s Graham’s attempt at a joke, it goes over her head. 

“There’s no Mantrovon 6. Or 5, or 4. So on.”

“What?” Graham dramatizes. “Where’d they get the seven from, then?” 

“Why is there a New York but no Old York?” The Doctor rebukes, and Graham bites his tongue. 

“Fair point.”

The door clicks open and there stands Griffon. Antsy and light on his feet, looking ready to either sprint into action or away from it at any given moment. The Doctor wonders when the last time was that his mind was even relatively at ease. 

“You’re immune to meziopholium.” He says, eyes blown to their widest capacity - which isn’t very wide. A bit of that visible weight, identical to the wear and tear on Branton’s very soul that the Doctor can smell like fumes of burnt chicken, has lightened. Definitely. “You can help.”

“Just tell us what you need, cockle.” Graham promises. “We’re here as long as you need us.”

Griffon’s thankfulness speaks in the form of a shallow nod and a beat of silence. “We lost communication with the rest of the city a few days ago. We can monitor heat signals, know when someone’s died, but they have no way to contact us if they need something.” He grits his teeth. “Still, not much we’ve been able to do in that area, but we have food. Fresh water.” 

“Hope.” Ryan offers. “They don’t know that they’ve got a chance at making it, now that the Doctor’s here.” 

“I’m really not sure that they should know.” Griffon confesses. “Hope can be a blessed thing. False hope only causes unnecessary pain.”

“I disagree.” The Doctor butts in. “Because I don’t consider this false hope. I’m very, very, optimistic, Griffon. Scratching the surface of confident, actually. On the brink of  _ arrogant,  _ dare I say.” She assures him, a twinkle in her eye. “Your people sound like they deserve a bit of hope right now.” 

“Branton said you think you can help. He didn’t sound quite as sure as you do.” He’s reconsidering, worry casting a shadow over his face once again. “You really think you can figure this out?”

She lifts her chin and grins. “I really do.” 

“Then let’s get to it.” Griffon digs a triangle-shaped key from his pocket and tosses it to Ryan, who characteristically juggles it aimlessly to stop it falling to the floor. It does anyways. “Only transport is a bus. Bit worse for wear, a nightmare to make tight corners in, but transport. Garage is in the back - Branton’s in there now loading boxes of non-perishables. Might need a hand.”

“A bus?” Ryan echoes, kneeling to retrieve the key. 

“Finally, time to show off  _ my  _ special skill.” 

“What did this building used to be?” Yaz asks. 

“A school.” His voice adopts a saddened color, and he doesn’t elaborate. 

The Doctor gives Ryan and Graham a nod of assent when they look to her for the go ahead. 

Yaz, however, is watching her with a mindful eye, scanning her head to toe and taking in unseen information. She’s trying to figure out whether or not to be worried. 

The Doctor catches herself bent slightly at the waist and makes a point to straighten to her fullest capacity, returning Yaz’s glance with a silencing glare. 

Yaz acknowledges it with a slight quirk of her brow, a small frown on her lips, and lets the unspoken subject slide. 

“Doctor, you’ll be with me in the lab, obviously.” Griffon opens the door and holds it there with one foot. “Graham, Ryan and — Yaz, was it?” Good memory. “Good luck out there.” 

“Actually,” Yaz side-steps in the Doctor’s direction. “I think I’ll stay and help the Doctor.” 

“I highly doubt we’ll need a third pair of hands —”

“No, let her stay.” The Doctor’s quick to interject. Selfishly, she admits to herself. She wants someone nearby — someone she’s comfortable with. And she should probably be able to place why, but she can’t. “Ryan and Graham can handle the door-to-door just the two of them. Yaz will be more useful with us.” That’s pretty much a lie. Yaz’s wide ranging people skills would probably come in handy out there. 

But the Doctor wants her close by. 

“Yeah, we’ll be alright.” Graham agrees, and claps Ryan on the shoulder before starting out the door. “Garage this way?” Griffon nods in confirmation.

“Boys.” The Doctor calls after them, just before they’ve rounded the doorway. “Be careful.”

“Always.” Ryan grins knowingly, nods his bidding to Yaz, and disappears down the hall with Graham. 

“Lab’s the other way.” Griffon informs, nodding to the left. “Shall we?” 

Yaz looks to the Doctor in question, who’s making a theatrical point of patting down all of her pockets. “I’ll catch up with you two in a mo. Think I set my sonic down in here somewhere.” She scratches her head, glances around, and makes sure not to catch Yaz’s suspicious eye.

She waits until their footsteps have faded into the distance before ceasing her dramatics and letting her shoulders fall. Weariness is already making them heavier. 

Head bowed and eyes screwed up, she curls her fingers around the sonic in her pocket and draws it out, allowing herself a moment to appreciate the comforting weight in her palm. 

She lovingly slides her thumb along the dips and ridges, then points it at herself and presses the button. 

The Doctor finds herself closing her eyes out of pure cowardice, and she shames herself for it, because she has to know. The familiar whirr stops, and she braves to look. 

Two days. 

Should she feel relieved? Probably not the most ordinary of responses to finding out you have forty-eight hours to live, but the Doctor still smiles, because that’s forty-eight whole hours to save one hundred and forty-seven beautiful, still breathing, well deserving lives. 

She wonders how much higher that number would be if she’d made the right decision on the first go-round. 

“Doctor?”

She snaps to attention when Yaz’s voice sounds from the doorway, and the Doctor’s brain fizzles, an attempt at an explanation coming out in uncertain stutters. “I-”

“What’s going on?” She has one hand timidly on the doorframe, emanating such a cacophony of concern that the Doctor can’t look her in the eye. 

“Later, Yaz.” She dismisses, pocketing her sonic in her hurry out of the door and away from this conversation. 

“ _ Doctor _ .” Yaz grabs her arm in protest, but the Doctor shakes it off. 

“ _ Later, Yaz _ .” She looks back at her sincerely, trying to communicate a silent plea so she doesn’t have to acknowledge it out loud. “Please.” 

The Doctor starts after Griffon and with a quiet, defeated sigh, Yaz follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm at that stage of very much disliking everything I write so bear with me while i get excessively picky, and probably post way too rarely
> 
> (i'm on tumblr @strikingtwelves & twitter @striking_twelve!!!)


	4. Slipping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well would you look at that. a chapter. every day i feel differently about whether or not to even continue this but HERE WE ARE. 
> 
> also, if you aren't reading all i want for christmas by silverheart09 you're missing out.

The lab follows the same theme as the rest of the school with its mix-matched equipment and lack of upkeep. A microscope with chipped paint and dusty lenses sits next to a much more updated take. Old, inoperable computer monitors gather dust in a box under the vibrant white desk that homes a tall holographic display, equations and formulas bouncing across the screen too quickly to be read. Not that Yaz would be able to make sense of them anyways. 

That is, in retrospect, the most impressive piece of equipment in the lab. Most everything else is older and less exciting, save for a few smaller devices that are odd and unfamiliar enough that Yaz can’t guess what they are just by looking. 

“Have you not tidied up in the past four decades?” The Doctor mumbles disapprovingly, frowning pointedly at the clutter. 

If Griffon hears her, he doesn’t bother replying, small eyes narrowed as he flicks through readings on the dark green hologram. 

The Doctor leans in close to Yaz’s ear, hands folded in her front and shoulders relaxed. “That’s a no.” 

“He’s been busy, hasn’t he?” Yaz defends, playing along, but there’s a faint briskness to her tone and stillness to her expression to remind the Doctor that she hasn’t forgotten about their recent conversation — or lack thereof. 

She’s standing straighter now at least - probably making a point to though, now that she’s been found out. There’s a part of Yaz that wants to be irritated by the Doctor’s secrecy, but instead it just grinds her worry into something more urgent. 

The visible exhaustion and enigmatic behavior aside, almost since they first arrived the Doctor has just seemed...

Off. 

“So. Tell me everything.” The Doctor pulls a metal stool out from under a bar-esque workstation and props her head up with a fist against her cheek and her elbow on the table, eager. “From a scientific point of view. What have you tried, what haven’t you tried?” 

She’d normally be standing for this bit. 

“We’ve tried everything.” Griffon insists without sparing a glance over his shoulder. 

“Well then, what’s worked, what hasn’t worked?” She tries, lifting her head. 

This time he gives her a serious but short-lived staredown. “ _ Nothing  _ has worked.”

“Come on Griffon, work with me here.” The Doctor lets her hand fall from her cheek and thud against the table with obscure impatience. “What has been the closest thing to a functioning antidote, antibiotic,  _ whatever _ that you’ve come up with? What have you learned? What progress have you made?” 

Yaz doesn’t really listen as Griffon begins to string off lists of presumably chemicals, all words she’s never heard before, all probably each containing at least half the letters in the english alphabet. Most of it sounds like a bit of a keyboard smash, really. Maybe even the TARDIS translation circuit doesn’t know what he’s talking about. 

The Doctor seems to be following right along though, acknowledging various points with a nod or a hum, checking mental boxes. 

After several minutes of Yaz feeling increasingly undereducated, the Doctor says the unexpected.

“You really have tried everything haven’t you?” There’s an aura of almost defeat in her dreary, beseeching tone, and Yaz has to do a double take.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” Griffon swipes at the transparent screen with his index finger and the figures disappear. He turns back around, head low and shoulders tense. “Technologically, we’re lagging behind in a few areas. But scientifically? Mantrovon is doing quite well.” 

“Those are all things I would have tried.” The Doctor abides, gesturing half-heartedly to the now blank hologram. “In fact, that’s everything I would have tried.” 

At that, Griffon’s head shoots up, the bit of faith he’d gained over the past few hours evacuating his eyes. “So… you can’t do something about this?” 

The Doctor doesn’t respond, doesn’t move a muscle, and Yaz can tell without even seeing her face that she’s refusing to accept that as a fact. 

A beat, then another, then the Doctor lifts her head. “You’ve tried adapting the people to the atmosphere...”

“Yes, we’ve just discussed this —”

“— But have you tried adapting the atmosphere to the people?”

Griffon goes quiet, mouth snapping shut as the cogs turn. He definitely hadn’t thought of that. 

But the misery on his face is quick to return, his words are weighted, and he shakes his head. “That’s not possible.”

“Never say not possible — ooh, did that count as a double negative?” The Doctor winces, smacks her lips thoughtfully. “Didn’t taste like a double negative. Definitely didn’t roll off the tongue well, though.” 

“Doctor.” Yaz chides. 

“Right. Yes. Hear me out.” She rises from her seat and it’s a bit refreshing, Yaz realizes. The way she braces her stance in that familiar way and readies her hands because, of course, they’ll be performing half the show. “There’s not a medicine in this galaxy that will make your antibodies strong enough to fight off something like meziopholium. Probably not in the next galaxy either. Or the one past that. You scored yourself a stubborn bacteria, there.” 

Yaz steps around so she can see the Doctor’s face. She needs a front row seat for this.

“ _ So _ ,” She stills her hands for effect. “we have to activate the antibodies in the air.”

Griffon makes a face, unconvinced. “There are no antibodies in the air.”

“Oh, good.” The Doctor’s shoulders fall in exaggerated relief. “I am cleverer than you. You started to worry me there.”

Before Griffon can get too offended Yaz swoops in to whisper close to his ear, “Trust me, that’s a compliment comin’ from her.”

The Doctor folds her hands together and moves them as she speaks. “This planet has been around for billions of years. It knows how the sun on it’s back is supposed to feel. It knows that it’s atmosphere should be warm and comforting and healing but instead is hurting it.”

“You say that as if Mantrovon is alive.” He challenges, but with a curious note. 

“Every planet is alive, in a sense.” She states it like an assurance. “Each holding the basis of life, and what’s needed for that life to stay living. Yours, undoubtedly, is already fighting back. It’s just not strong enough.” 

“So we… what? Give it a boost?” Griffon still sounds unsure. “How?” 

“It’s just basic atmospheric chemistry,” She insists on a scoff and dismissive wave, “I’ll show you as we go along. Somewhere down the line we’ll need my TARDIS to…” Her words falter, a crease forms between her brows. “To project the reinforcement into the air. We can probably use what you’ve already got in here, in the meantime.” It’s casual, hardly noticeable, but the Doctor’s hand drifts to her right and braces against a countertop. “Got any heliomezantium on hand?”

She’s slipping.

“Of course.” Griffon says.

“Good, we’ll need loads.” Her right arm earns a tremor under the increased weight it’s forced to bear, her head drooping in it’s direction. “Think you could fetch Yaz some water? These humans and their constant need for hydration — it’s troubling, really. Few hours without it and they just dry out. Shrivel up. Do you have raisins on Mantrovon 7? Bit like those.” 

Yaz squints questioningly, opens her mouth to banter the false information, but Griffon’s already hustling out of the lab with anxious mutters and passing apologies. 

It’s just the two of them now, abandoned to the uneasy quiet that Yaz isn’t hurried to break. The Doctor tries to pick up her head and does, for an instant, but it drifts back down so that her chin is almost touching her chest. She just needs a moment. 

Yaz respectfully drops her gaze to her shoes, fingers curling into fists against her sides when she hears the Doctor’s breath hitch. 

“Is it the stuff in the air?” She can’t take it. “You said it doesn’t affect you, but —” 

“No.” The Doctor quickly shuts the notion down. “It’s not harmful to any of us.”

“Are you lying?” 

“No.”

Yaz looks up into those dreary but serious eyes, framed by greying skin and fluttering tiredly. The Doctor’s hand spasms against her grip on the table and the crease at her brow suddenly deepens, her shoulders slump,  _ is she going to — _

She does. With a pained gasp and one desperate attempt to catch herself against the workstation, Doctor’s knees buckle beneath her. 

Yaz is quicker than the pull of gravity itself, and she lunges forward and catches her friend around the waist. Swift and prepared, she lowers her to her seat, her hand a willing lifeline as the Doctor holds on with a death grip. Her eyes are screwed shut and over the faint panting, Yaz can hear her teeth grinding against an onslaught of pain. 

“Then what the hell is wrong with you?” Yaz’s voice breaks as she holds the Doctor steady. The sight is overwhelming. Unsettling.

The Doctor takes a moment, hold on Yaz’s hand loosening and body slowly regaining strength, but her head stays limp against Yaz’s shoulder for a moment extra before she takes a deep breath. “Don’t tell Griffon.” She pleads, out of nowhere. “Or Branton. They need to be able to trust me.” 

“Tell them what, exactly?” Yaz exclaims, stepping back so she can see the Doctor’s eyes once the woman has stabilized. “You won’t even tell me! ” 

“When Ryan and Graham get back.” She promises, rolling her shoulders experimentally when Griffon’s approaching footsteps sound from the other side of the laboratory door. “I only want to say it once.”

Something about that statement sends cold anxiety through Yaz’s veins. 

* * *

“So why did a school become Ghosttown HQ? ” Ryan asks, appreciating the chuckle he gets out of Graham and the confused furrow of Branton’s brow as he passes Ryan a hefty box of soup cans. 

“It’s at the core of the city.” Branton explains, grunting through his words under the strain of the weight until it’s relieved. “It was an academy for the most skilled of our youth so the majority of government funding went into providing the best equipment. The best resources. Everything we needed when the crisis began was here, so it became…  _ Ghosttown HQ _ as you call it.” 

Ryan hands the box off to Graham who shoves it into the back of the bus. “Looked like your makeshift infirmary back there became a bit of a hospital.” Graham adds. “Don’t you have a proper hospital ‘round here?” 

“When it was up and running it became primarily for adults since half the population was already falling ill at the time.” Branton bends to pick up another box. “The children were sent here.”

“What sort of logic is that? Shouldn’t kids be top priority?” Graham questions. 

Branton doesn’t seem to have an answer for that, shrugging as he pawns the item off on Ryan. “Adults were too big for our beds, I suppose.” 

Ryan and Graham exchange a look at that, and Ryan stretches his sore fingers after the last box is loaded. “So you worked here? Or no, this started ages back, so you —” 

“Attended here. Yes.” Branton’s sharp tone indicates that’s the end of the conversation, and he slams the back doors of the bus shut. “You ever driven one of these before?” 

Graham tilts his head back to take in the massive size of the vehicle — a good bit taller and wider than city busses back home. A challenge, accepted. It’s a bit exciting, he has to admit. Not often he has a chance to use something he’s good at to benefit the group, (and he’s not good at much).

“Don’t worry, mate. This is my area of expertise.” Graham says proudly, and Ryan rolls his eyes. 

“Hold on,” Ryan slides the passenger door open and pauses in thought. “How are we meant to get all this stuff into people’s houses if they can’t open their doors or windows without letting the air in?” 

“Most of them have rigged up air tight compartments for that very purpose. You’ll see what I mean when you get into town.” Branton steps out of their way. “Thank you, by the way. You’re doing Mantrovon 7 a great service.” 

“It’s no bother, man.” Ryan claps him on the shoulder and makes a mental note not to repeat the action when Branton shrivels uncomfortably under his touch. Odd bloke, him. 

“It’s the Doc that you’ll really have to thank.” Graham climbs into the driver’s seat. “She’ll get your lot sorted in no time.” 

“You have faith in her?” Branton inquires, holding the door open so that they can’t shut it just yet. “You have faith in her abilities?”

“Mate, she never stops surprising us with those.” Graham snaps his seatbelt into position, releasing it with a satisfying snap and shifting comfortably in his seat. “If she says she can do it, she can. Even if she doesn’t know how she’s gonna do it yet.” 

Branton’s eyes are still filled with doubt, but the response pleases him enough that he releases the door and nods his bidding. He exits the garage, a brief beep sounds, and the wall in front of the bus lifts open like a mouth, welcoming the two into the foggy wasteland waiting on the other side. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's see how many sciency words i can make up by the time this fic is finished
> 
> thank you for reading!!!! let me know what you thought. hopefully the next chapter won't take 4 years


	5. Distraction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don’t ask me how i managed to come out with this in a day as opposed to the usual 3 weeks because i have NO idea

It’s not an uncommon occurrence for the Doctor to leave Yaz in full on wide eyed, jaw-dropped wonder, but it comes on strong every time. She might not have been able to make sense of half the terminology used in the real-time narrative of her friend’s internal monologue, but the Doctor’s just scribbled out nine pages of equations and detailed instructions compacted into a handy and quite colorful step-by-step guide that “Even a monkey could understand.” All in under two minutes. Yaz hasn’t even seen some of these symbols before. That makes her feel great.

The Doctor stacks the papers neatly and sets them on the table in front of her, hands folded as she looks up from her seat into the eyes of her audience. Expecting astonishment and receiving it, of course. She knows they’re impressed. 

“Just like that?” Yaz lets her crossed arms fall to her sides, incredulous. 

“More or less.” The Doctor shrugs humbly, but smugness still lifts lifts the corner of her mouth into a grin. “The deed isn’t done yet, but if you take a look at my very detailed and very well informed guide here you’ll see that if we follow it strictly and efficiently we’ll be finished before —” She lets the last word hang, mouth agape and frozen for an instant as her eyes dart back and forth for a reroute as if it’s hidden in the air.

“Before what?” Yaz asks carefully, narrowing her eyes.

“Before we know it!” Good one. 

Griffon picks up the stack of papers and flicks through them, just to double check, and his alien eyes fill with familiar astonishment. “You’re a genius.” 

“She knows.” Yaz assures quickly before the Doctor can think it out loud. 

His visibly growing amazement as he scans each page makes Yaz feel only slightly better about her lack of knowledge on the subject. Basic science and chemistry in school had always baffled and stumped her, but alien? She might as well be a toddler attending Harvard. 

Griffon, luckily, hasn’t seemed to notice her clear as day confusion despite the Doctor’s earlier fib regarding Yaz’s abilities. He also hasn’t noticed, or at least acknowledged the Doctor’s vaguely sickly complexion, nor the weary slump of her shoulders. Her voice maintains it’s light, practiced pitch when she speaks. Casual and forcibly normal, save for the occasional extra breath she takes in between sentences. Maybe Yaz just knows her better than Griffon, maybe he’s just intentionally oblivious. Maybe she’s overthinking things.

She’s more or less recomposed from her slight wobble, as she called it, but the invisible ailment that the Doctor refuses to explain is still there, creeping and silent, and Yaz can’t unsee it. 

She sips at the water Griffon brought her a while ago from a paper cup that she holds with both hands, quietly observing the Doctor over her knuckles as she hunches over a fresh piece of paper, led of her pencil already worn and dulled. 

“Here’s a list of the chemicals we need.” The Doctor shoves the page in Griffon’s direction without looking at him, already halfway through another bout of chicken scratch. “Here’s a list of equipment we need.” She basically throws the second one at him, and Griffon juggles for a grip as it falls aimlessly. 

Her tongue peaks between her teeth as she focuses hard on her intents of the final page, topping off the last item with an exaggerated jab of the now flat pencil tip. She lets Griffon pick it up and watches patiently as he tries to make sense of the carefree handwriting. 

“What’s a custard cream?” His face twists in confusion, holding the piece of paper at arms length in case he read it wrong. 

The Doctor huffs and points at him with her thumb, wincing comically. “Can you believe this guy?”

Yaz plucks it from his hand to see for herself, and sure enough. “Doctor, this is a list of your favorite snacks.” She breathes out a laugh. 

“What?” The Doctor recoils. “I get hungry when I’m working!”

Yaz snorts and crumbles the page into a ball, lubs it at the Doctor’s head who flashes her an offended frown. 

This is more like the Doctor. This is how it’s supposed to be, all jokes and jest and not taking anything too seriously. It’s familiarity is soothing, somehow reinforcing the idea that everything will be okay. Dulling the fear, ebbing the nagging concern that’s started to get really distracting. They’re here to save an entire civilization, after all. 

Except the lightness, the jokes — it’s all a show isn’t it? A facade to ease her mind, because the Doctor doesn’t like being worried about.

As Yaz’s eye catches the lingering tremor of the Doctor’s hands, she realizes that’s exactly why her friend smiles so wide.

Fear for yourself makes you fast. Makes you strong. 

Fear for others is crippling. Fear for others is  _ distracting _ . 

Yaz wonders how often the Doctor’s smile is just a cruel impersonation of ease.

* * *

“Think that might’ve been the lankiest man I’ve ever seen.” One hand steers the bus through overgrown pathways and poorly paved roads while the other holds a cup of coffee steady in mid air, cradling it through bumps and dips in the concrete. At least he thinks it’s coffee, Graham muses. Tastes nothing like it but Mr. Slim back there called it coffee, so he sips on.

“Do you think his name is actually Slim?” Ryan wonders from the passenger seat. “Or was it a nickname that stuck really well?” 

“Dunno, but I just about thought he was gonna slice my hand in half when he shook it. Should’ve given the poor lad one of my sarnies.” 

Ryan rolls the last statement around in his head and throws Graham a marvelled look. “ _ One _ of?!”

“I come prepared, remember?” Graham rebuttals instantly. “You’ll be thanking me one of these days when we don’t have such hospitable hosts.” 

Mr. Slim was an elderly-looking Mantrovonian. Living alone, no family left but spirits somehow high, Graham could tell. The man had welcomed his guests with open arms, a plate of stale crackers, and several spritzes of makeshift disinfectant that Graham’s noticed many civilians have managed to conjure up in their own kitchens. He doubts it’s entirely effective.

Most other people weren’t nearly as carefree as Mr. Slim, though. No one else had invited them inside, only either opening their front door for just long enough for Ryan and Graham to pass them a case of water and packaged food or instructing through a locked window to place the items in a double-doored compartment they’ve set up for the very purpose. Most of them seem very adamant on keeping as much of the toxic air outside as possible, but Graham knows none of these homes are one hundred percent air tight. 

“So far so good, then.” Ryan says, twisting to look over his shoulder. “We’ve got enough for one more house, then we should probably be getting back.”

He’s right, Graham thinks with a glance up at the night sky. It was near dusk when they first arrived on Mantrovon, and now the stars are vibrant and shining. It’s probably getting close to dawn by now, assuming the days here work about the same as they do on earth.

“Let’s see how these guys are getting on.” Graham decides with a steady hand on the wheel guiding them into a dimly lit driveway. He jumps out of the driver’s seat, let’s Ryan do the heavy lifting with an on-brand comment on his bad back and knocks on the front door softly. 

“We’ve got food and water!” Ryan calls, and the door clicks open just enough for a woman’s eye to peer through the crack. 

“Who are you?” Her demand hits them with a tinge of hostility, but there’s something in her eyes that tells Graham he doesn’t need to buck up.

The men never came up with a reason that the civilians of Mantrovon 7 shouldn’t know the truth, so Graham tells her what they told everyone else. “I’m Graham, this is Ryan, and we’re here with a couple of friends to help you lot out however we can.” 

“Who are you with?” She questions, still only holding the door open a fraction. 

“Yaz and the Doctor.” Ryan says, then he mouths an  _ oh _ . “You mean — organization sort of with?”

“We’re no one official.” Graham says quickly. “But you know Branton, I’m assuming. Yaz and the Doc are with him at the school working to sort out this whole mess.”

Unlike the others, this woman doesn’t show any interest in the fact that said mess is being further looked into, but she adopts a similar hopeful flare of energy.

“Are you two in the medical field as well?” Her tone rises in pitch, and she pulls Graham and Ryan inside her home with eager hands on their shoulders before they can tell her otherwise.

Ryan stumbles and nearly drops his armful, and just as he’s recovered he and Graham are met with a face-full of billowing, sterilizing fumes, forced out of what looks more like a fire extinguisher than Mr. Slim’s friendly spray bottle.

“Bleedin’ hell.” Graham splutters and waves a hand in front of his face. “You aren’t messing around with this stuff.” 

“Sorry,” The woman mutters in a hurry, setting the canister of disinfectant on the floor. “I’m Mara, can you help my daughter?” 

Graham holds out a halting hand but Mara doesn’t see it, already disappearing around a corner and gesturing for them to follow. “Ma’am, we’re not doctors.” He tries to communicate, following her into a bedroom without really paying attention. 

He comes to such an abrupt stop that Ryan nearly crashes into his back, and Graham takes a steadying breath as his heart begins to absolutely crumble.

There’s a child in a small bed in the corner of the room that she’s most definitely outgrown. She can’t be older than seven, maybe eight, and she looks to be on death’s doorstep. 

“Oh my god.” Ryan whispers over Graham’s shoulder, solemn and struck. 

“Please.” Her mother’s voice trembles, holding Graham’s gaze tight and desperate. “Can you do anything for her?”

Graham dares to step closer and doesn’t blame Ryan in the least for hanging back in the doorway. His chest feels heavier the closer he gets, and he finds himself too cowardly to cross the room entirely. 

She’s almost stark white, breathing shallow and hardly perceptible like the life’s been sucked right from her being through a straw. It’s wrong. Sickening. 

“It always affects the children the worst.” Mara says, broken and desperate. “Can you help her?” 

Graham opens his mouth but can’t speak for a moment over his soul shattering in sympathy. This is a mother’s wishful final hope. 

“I... I’m sorry.” It sounds terrible, even to his own ears. “I don’t think we can… but —“ His head snaps around. “Ryan. Weren’t there one of those oxygen masks in the back of the bus?” 

Ryan’s face lights up a bit, catching what he’s onto, and without a word sprints off in search. 

Graham looks back to Mara and holds his tone level, respectfully soft. “I’m sure some clean air will do her good.” His eyes start to burn. “But that’s all we can do, I’m afraid.”

The mother bows her head, his regretful words washing over her in a wave of clear, heart wrenching resignation. 

This is wrong, Graham mourns to himself, and as he finds his gaze locked onto this woman’s dying child the severity of their mission properly sinks in, deep and all at once, dread gluing his heels to the floor. He hopes the Doctor knows what she’s doing.

* * *

Several hours into her project now and the Doctor’s still holding herself together surprisingly well. It helps that she doesn’t have to stand, probably. Instead she assumes the role of supervisor, director; instructing Griffon on what to mix and what to test from a pretty uncomfortable looking position, perched on the same metal stool and elbow holding up her weight against the table. Her head hangs tiredly in its direction. 

Yaz quit offering to help after the third time she was denied and she resorts to taking a seat at the Doctor’s side, feigning interest in the results of the scan of her sonic after she flicks it over a jar homing wisps of pale violet clouds. 

Okay, so she’s a tad interested. It’s quite cool to look at but she takes her self-appointed position of the Doctor’s silent caretaker very seriously, because apparently she needs some supervision of her own. 

Despite the tremor of her fingers around a pencil and the sweat beginning to bead on the back of her neck, the Doctor presses on, seemingly unphased. Deliberate and diligent as ever. 

Still doing nothing about the fact that whatever’s wrong with her is obviously getting worse. 

“Haven’t seen you take a seat since we got here, Griff.” The Doctor reprimands, the relaxed notes forced into her tone losing a bit of strength. “Why don’t you have a kip? Yaz and I can carry on — keep things on track and all.” 

“I was about to suggest the same thing to you.” He comments, removing a pair of gloves and the safety goggles. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.” 

It’s probably been a lot longer than that, Yaz considers, but it’s good to know Griffon isn’t entirely unobservant. 

“Oh, me?” The Doctor leans back in her stool a bit without removing her anchor on the table. “I’m a Time Lord. I can go —”

“— ages without sleep!” Yaz finishes on a teasing lilt, raising her hands extravagantly to add to the drama.

The Doctor shoots her an exhausted excuse of a bantering glare. “Yes, I  _ can _ .” She looks back to Griffon. “And you need to be in top notch for the last leg of this. We’ll need my TARDIS, like I said. Bit of a walk.” 

“We’ll have the bus by then.” Griffon argues. Oh yeah, Graham and Ryan should be getting back soon. “And you look like you need the refresher.” 

“Oh,” The Doctor stalls, fumbling for an excuse. “This is just my alien-y way of recharging. Get a bit wobbly for a bit. Low power mode, you know?” She makes a  _ pfft _ sound. “But I think I’ve got my second wind coming —” A poor theatric of straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin. “— There it is. Right, I’m good for another week.”

_ You’ve done better _ , Yaz cringes. It’s a terrible lie, but Griffon’s nodding thoughtfully nonetheless. 

“Just a few hours might do me good.” He considers, and nods firmly in conclusion. “Suppose I will.” 

“Good lad.” She beams, and her grin is almost believable. 

Yaz wanted to interject initially when the Doctor turned down the opportunity for a nap. She absolutely needed to rest more than Griffon did, but Yaz can’t help but selfishly long for a chance to confront her again. Especially now that distantly and very slowly approaching, she can hear Graham and Ryan’s conversing voices deep down the hall. The Doctor said she’d explain once they were all together, and Yaz is holding her to it. 

She finds her gaze impatiently follows Griffon’s movements as he gathers a few personal items from the lab and starts towards the exit. “I’ll just be in the room a few doors over. If you need anything.”

“We’ll be okay.” She grins thinly, watching every step he takes, and when the door clicks shut behind him Yaz whirls around in her seat. 

The wall she’s been holding must have been impossibly heavy, because the Doctor now hardly has the energy to keep herself from spilling onto the floor. She shifts her weight over the table, forehead pressed into clenched fists.

Yaz flies out of her seat to put a steadying hand on the Doctor’s back, just in case, and her eyes sting as she feels pained breaths hitch beneath her palm. 

Words fail her on their first attempt so she doesn’t even bother, fingers curling in the Doctor’s coat partially in anxiety, partially in frustration. She knows she won’t get a response either way. 

“I need to stand.” The Doctor grunts, words equally as fierce as they are weak. “Been sittin’ too long.” 

“ _ Can _ you stand?” Yaz challenges, surprised by the poorly repressed emotion in her own voice. “You can hardly sit up!” 

The Doctor’s head rolls to one side, still resting on closed hands, and Yaz’s heart breaks at the resignation she finds her her eyes. She raises one hand, fingers twitching in search.

“Then help me.”

Yaz swallows the lump in her throat and takes the hand that, for the first time ever, feels warmer than her own. Her other arm wraps around the Doctor’s shoulders, holding firmly to support her as she sits up. 

Her eyes are closed the whole time, even when Yaz makes the first move to guide her to her feet. Her knees buckle once they’re once again responsible for her weight but Yaz expected nothing less. She moves the arm around the Doctor’s shoulders to her waist, tightens the grip on her hand and tries to anchor her friend back to her feet. 

But the weight against her shoulder is getting heavier, and the Doctor still hasn’t found her footing. 

“Come on,” Yaz says urgently, rejecting the fact that the Doctor is losing consciousness and continues to attempt to hoist her upright. Her eyes are no longer squeezed shut in discomfort, lines at her brow relaxing, head drooping down — and she’s out.

Graham and Ryan choose the worst time to walk in, but also the perfect one because Yaz’s arms are starting to strain in protest as she tries to keep from buckling under the Doctor’s deadweight. The physically weakening companion of sheer despair doesn’t help, and Yaz almost falls.

Then there are two arms looped under the Doctor’s arms from behind her as Ryan gently, sturdily accepts the Doctor’s weight, and a hand lands on Yaz’s shoulder as Graham swims into her field of view. His eyes are wide with tangible concern, evident confusion, but his words all but blend together in her split focus.

“What the hell happened?” He demands, looking over to where Ryan has the Doctor propped up against the wall and is lightly tapping her cheek, trying to rouse her, telling his friend to snap out of it in a panic.

“I don’t know Graham.” Yaz chokes on her words. Beyond overwhelmed and  _ well past _ worried at this point, she muffles a frustrated cry into the back of her hand. “I have no idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REVIEWS ARE GETTING ME THROUGH THIS FIC, THANK YOU GUYS FOR READING!


	6. Difficult Conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DOCTOR WHO TOMORROW!! the hype is what you can thank for this chapter. i'm gonna do my best to keep up with it but i'll be starting a new oneshot series once i've watched spyfall and that'll probably eat up my time. but WE SHALL SEE!! happy day-before-doctor-who-day lads

She’s drawn back to the waking world by a firm hand tapping rhythmically against her cheek, voices speaking in urgent tones but words just shy of intelligible. The Doctor takes a deep, unsteady breath, fingers twitch to alert her friends that she’s awake, but she allows herself to revel in comforting darkness for a moment longer. It’s peaceful, for once — enveloping her in it’s calling oblivion, an offering of relief. She longs to accept it… because  _ stars _ does her head hurt. 

The hand on her cheek is withdrawn and replaced with a calloused, aged palm against her forehead and a hum of disapproval. She squints against it, trying to tilt her head away from the contact. 

“She’s not usually this warm, is she?” Graham’s voice softens as he removes his hand. 

“No.” Yaz’s voice comes from behind his, and something about the darkness of her typically bright voice prompts the Doctor to reject the calling darkness entirely. She opens her eyes to find the most confusing onslaught of contradictory emotions coming at her like arrows; worry and relief, happiness and sadness, and none of it makes sense to her at the moment until she finds the glimpse of anger that only Yaz bears. 

The Doctor tries to sit up a little higher on the wall they’ve propped her against. Ryan sits at her side, shoulder supporting her own to keep her from slipping sideways. She doesn’t reject, silently grateful, when he helps her shift a bit straighter. 

Graham is taking up nearly her entire field of view, crouched on one knee and dropping unhelpfully raised hands into his lap. Yaz is watching from over his shoulder, having gratefully, briefly taken the backseat but wasting no time in returning to the front line.

“You can’t just  _ pass out _ to avoid difficult conversations.” Yaz moves Graham over with a requesting tap on his arm and takes his place, sitting on her heels and setting one hand over the Doctor’s knee. She squeezes it slightly as she speaks, trying to add impact to an already painfully serious tone. “Doctor I know you hate being the one that needs help but this…” Her face crumples. “This isn’t okay! This is _ too much!  _ You were okay last night and now just about look like you’re-” She stops herself, and the Doctor cringes. 

_ Dying? _ She finishes to herself. “Oi, thanks a lot. I always look like this in the mornings.”

Her voice, even to her own ears, is too heavy for the quip to land properly. They’re all giving her that same _ don’t even try _ glare, and she sighs. Defeated.

“How long was I out?” This time she doesn’t insult their intelligence by trying to sound more okay than she is, speech low and controlled so as to not disturb the marching band banging away at her skull. 

“Just a few minutes.” Ryan says, sounding more level and relaxed than any of them. “But you scared us half to death.” 

“We’re all here. No getting out of this now.” Yaz reminds her, and as much as the Doctor wants to argue, she can’t come up with a single reasonable way out. 

The Doctor grits her teeth and tries to hold herself up a bit sturdier. They’re not gonna like this. 

And, quite frankly, it’s a tad embarrassing. 

“So this planet, yeah?” She slowly draws one knee close to her chest, rests a limp hand on top of it. “It’s core is pretty much made of this slightly psychic form of radiation. If I was ever told the name, I don’t remember it.”

“Radiation?” Ryan echoes, and concern pulls Graham’s lips into a frown. 

“That sounds bad, Doc.”

“Hear me out.” The Doctor halts, lifting a finger. “It’s perfectly safe for Mantrovon and just about everyone else.” She replenishes the air in her lungs when it’s sucked out by a stab of pain. “The planet thrives from it, actually. Helps things grow, feeds the land and the living. Without it the balance of the entire planet would fall out of order. They depend on that constant, thriving flow of energy. It’s just how this corner of the universe functions.”

There’s no use in stalling at this point yet still, she pauses. 

“And?” Yaz prompts, waiting for the ball to drop. 

“And…” With a wince and a loosely clenched fist, she lets go. “It… doesn’t exactly bode well with telepathic species. Something about that extra sense becoming a doorway for it to step through and — attack, basically.” As if her body wishes to chime an example, it seizes up without permission as the drums in her head build into an unbearable crescendo. “I… didn’t pay much —  _ ow _ — attention during that class. Professor was far too dull.”

“When we first got here the grass made you sneeze.” Ryan has a concerned hand on her shoulder as she rides out the wave, and he still dares to tease. “So are you actually —”

“I’m not _ allergic to the planet _ , Ryan. ” The onslaught dies down but she squeezes her eyes shut against the humiliating misconception. She’s not allergic to anything… except aspirin. And a few other things. 

“But… you basically are, aren’t you?” Graham defends the notion, a chime of humor slipping into his tone. 

She sighs, heavy and dramatic on her own accord this time, and her ashen skin goes pink when she realizes he’s basically right. “Just a tad.” 

Yaz is looking at her like she’s the most idiotic thing ever to grace the universe, but the Doctor’s used to that. She focuses instead on the relief she finds in her friend’s eyes — a blessed emotion, she knows, and really wishes she didn’t have to squash it under her boot.

“So what’s gonna happen if you stay here?” Graham asks. 

“You probably need to… you know. Leave for a while? Come back when you’re better?” Yaz tilts her head, shifting to sit cross-legged. “If you’re already this unwell then you shouldn’t stick around to see how bad it gets.” 

“Yeah.” The Doctor agrees, but only halfway. “This radiation, for my kind at least… tiny bit deadly.” 

She must have really caught them off guard somehow with that one. She figured it would be implied, given she probably looks about as close to death as she feels, but they all reel back to give her an identical look of shocked horror. 

“ _ What? _ ” They shout, in sync and overpowering, and the Doctor grimaces. 

“Only a tiny bit!” 

“Doctor… you’ve got to leave.” Ryan states simply, eyes hardening into a seriousness that’s unfamiliar on him. 

“The rest of us can stay and help.” Yaz offers, a pleading lilt to her tone. “Griffon’s got an entire guide to go by thanks to you, so he’ll keep things on track while you get better.” 

“Yaz…” The Doctor closes her eyes. She’s tired, so tired. “I’d have to take the TARDIS off world so she can dust herself off. She’s been here long enough that the radiation will have started to seep in. Won’t be any better for me in there.” 

“Then take the TARDIS  _ off world _ .” Graham appears, despite everything, to get a little rush out of using the lingo. “Go have a kip on my legendary sofa.”

“Plus, you’ve got a time machine, mate.” Ryan insists. “You could take days if you needed it and make it back to us before we can even blink.”

She’s already shaking her head, wisps of disheveled blonde falling over her eyes. “I can’t trust the navigation system until I fix it, and that’ll take too long. I can’t risk getting this wrong again.” 

A beat.

“How d’you mean, again?” Ryan questions, hesitant. 

The Doctor bites the inside of her lip, eyes screwed tightly shut before she cracks a heavy lid, searching for words. “I —”

“Have you been here before?” Yaz digs, pressing for an end to the enigmatics. It’s well past tiring. 

The Doctor shakes her head again, limp and slow. She doesn’t have the energy for this conversation on a good day, and can’t muster up even a fraction needed to put her guilt out in the open for all to see. Her silence visibly irks them, but they’ll just have to deal with it. 

“Well, nevermind that. The facts stay the same, Doc.” Graham’s adopted a quite daunting fatherly tone, one that nearly gives her pause. The tone used to tell a child to clean their room for the umpteenth time, terse and strict. Leaving no room for arguments or explanations. “You’re leaving until you’re better, and that’s that.”

And as far as explanations go, she’s running out of good ones. Not that that changes anything — they’re just gonna have to be okay with this. 

With a newfound strength to her voice and intensity in her bones that she tries to quell through clenched fists, she speaks clear and unwavering. 

“No.”

Yaz’s jaw actually drops in amazement. “ _ No? _ ” 

She swallows thickly, jaw clenched as she resists the urge to close her eyes against a new wave of agony. The word comes out a bit weaker, but no less impactful. “ _ No _ .” 

Ryan is speechless, and proper fear crashes over his features. 

“I can’t tell if you’re incredibly brave,” Graham marvels. “Or completely daft.” 

“Bit of both on a good day.” The Doctor grunts as she tries to sit back up from where she’s begun to slump down the wall. “But I just call it having no other choice.” 

She knows that’s not quite true, and so do they. She could leave. Recover. Fix the navigation systems, (as much as they’re capable of being fixed), and come back, just like Ryan said, before anyone even blinked. 

But something about that tactical notion feels too wrong, stirs the guilt in her chest tenfold. Feels like running away all over again. 

And she can’t risk overshooting. She really can’t. 

She can’t leave her friends stranded, and she can’t leave Mantrovon 7 defenseless to the hands of meziopholium. She has to stay and see this through to the end. 

“How long have you got?” Yaz dares to ask, voice quiet and on the verge of betraying emotion the Doctor already recognizes in her eyes. 

“Day and a half. Ish.” The Doctor estimates with a dismissive wave, drawing her hand to the side of her head when the onslaught doesn’t pass, and intensifies instead. She can’t hold back a brief, miserable groan as she tries to dig the pain out through her temple with shaking fingertips. 

It dies down just enough for her to catch her breath and as spasming fingers still, she feels a soft hand curl around them. Her hearts clench when she opens her eyes to find a pained tear escaping down Yaz’s cheek. 

“Well let’s get back to the sciency stuff so we can get you out of here, yeah?” Yaz says softly, voice wobbling unmistakably. 

The Doctor takes in a shaky breath and homes in on the sensation of Yaz squeezing her hand, and she reciprocates weakly, nods strongly. Her hold is overwhelmingly relaxing, but there’s a strength the Doctor finds in it regardless.

She slides a booted heel close and braces to stand, tightening her grip on Yaz’s hand as she begins to pull. On her left, Ryan hooks an arm firmly under hers and carefully, considerately helps her rise. 

She doesn’t even have to ask for their help, doesn’t have to embarrass herself any further, and even once she’s standing on her own two feet Ryan and Yaz don’t loosen their hold. When her knees buckle, Graham is at her right before she can register that she’s sinking, and with a sturdy hand on her back, he helps hold her up. Respectfully silent and looking at the floor, masking the emotion branded into his eyes. 

The Doctor finds her stance but knows that if they let go, even for a moment, she’ll fall. 

She’s so tired, so physically weak that it’s honestly frightening. She can admit that to herself now, a bit of the weight of holding herself in one piece eased from her shoulders and distributed to her friends. Not something she likes to make a habit of, mind, and the fact that they’re all literally holding up her weight has the potential to be a truly demeaning experience, but she can’t be bothered. The loss of control and sensation of reality slipping through her fingers is agonizing. Yet still, she feels safe. She feels capable. 

By the time they’ve eased her back into her seat at the workstation she’s out of breath, sweating and putting most of her effort into slowing shallow pants. Ryan hustles out of the lab on an unspoken mission while Yaz drags a stool next to the Doctor’s, and Graham fusses over the thundering pulse at her wrist. 

Ryan returns to shove a cup of water into the hand she’s not using to stay upright against the table and Graham releases her wrist so she can hold it properly. “No offense, Doc, but how are you meant to get anything done in a state like this?”

“I can still think and speak, can’t I?” She chuckles, out of place. “Griffon can do the heavylifting. I’ll just make sure he doesn’t screw it all up.” 

“How long do you think it’ll take?” Yaz’s brow furrows even deeper than before. “What if it —”

“It won’t take too long, Yaz.” The Doctor breathes. “It’s around dawn, isn’t it? If we stay on track we’ll… we’ll be finished by tonight.” 

That seems to satisfy them enough for now, thankfully, because the Doctor needs to catch her breath. 

“Should I go wake Griffon, then?” Yaz is already moving to stand. 

“Yaz.” The Doctor says quickly, resisting the urge to rest her head on the table. “Still don’t tell him. Let me.” 

Yaz pauses, only briefly, then nods her understanding and leaves the room. 

The Doctor inhales deeply and lifts her heavy head to look over at Ryan and Graham. “How was it out there?” She gestures vaguely to the door, having forgotten all about the fact they’d left in the first place. 

The two exchange a knowing glance that she can’t quite decipher, but it looks sad. “Pretty bad.” Graham says lowly, eyes reddening. 

“Lets just say that if you really, truly believe you can save the rest of the lot before your allergies kill you —” Ryan raises his volume over her attempted protest. “— then we’ll back you.” 

“But you come first, Doc.” Graham bites, index finger raised insistently. “You’ve got to talk to us. Tell us if you’re gettin’ too bad too quick or if this… thing that I still don’t understand is gonna take longer than you thought. We can’t help you if you don’t, and you have to let us help you.”

“No more of this silent sufferer nonsense.” Ryan chides, waving in gesture to the Doctor in general. “You’ve got a team. Use it.”

She pushes away to the best of her ability the images of innocent people decaying on her account, and musters a warm smile. “Thanks, boys.”

“You might want to give Yaz a bit of time to level out, though.” Ryan notes. “She seemed a bit more…” 

“Yeah.” The Doctor sighs. “She’ll be angry with me for a bit, I think.” 

“She’ll come ‘round.” Graham promises, and gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Now then, tell us how we can help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> keep an eye out for my next one shot series!! i'll be taking prompts all through the airing of s12. 
> 
> but in the meantime, let me know what you thought of this chapter and lmk if you think i should finish it because who knows? not me!


	7. Stubborn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3 months of self doubt later and I’m back to finish this!!! I got really excited about this story again and y’all have been really really kind and encouraging. Hope you enjoy the rest, I’m putting Safe Place on the back burner for a bit and focusing on this.

When Griffon doesn’t respond to her knock on the door, Yaz lets herself in. He’s out like a light, limbs strung haphazardly and head dangling off the side of the sofa in an uncomfortable, but apparently suitable position. 

It’s awkward, waking a stranger. A stranger, _ and _an alien. What if she’s meant to tug on his ear or say a magic word? 

Ridiculous, that is, obviously. A light shake of the shoulder does the trick, and Griffon jolts upright. His short hair is tostled from sleep and small eyes narrow against the light filtering in from the hall.

“The Doctor needs you.” Yaz explains, short and to the point, and Griffon stands robotically, face pinched in familiar groggy misery. She almost feels bad for waking him. 

“Everything going alright?” He rubs one tired eye with his palm and slips on discarded shoes.

“Yeah.” Yaz lies, because it’s not her place to tell him the truth. “Have a nice nap?”

Griffon just grunts and steps into the hall while slipping a second arm through his coat. When they reach the door to the lab, Yaz finds herself coming to a stop. 

“Go on, I’ll be in in a mo.” 

She needs a minute. 

Griffon, whether he’s too tired to question or simply doesn’t care, only nods, and in the split-seconds that the door is open Yaz can see the Doctor physically composing herself. 

It won’t work, she muses, allowing the door to shut and the visual to be cut. Griffon will take one look at her and start firing questions, and Yaz doesn’t need to hear the answer all over again. Once is enough. 

_ So the Doctor’s dying. _ She registers properly, with a slow exhale to allow the fact to settle. The Doctor’s dying, and Yaz is _ terrified _ , because the Doctor has always come across as nothing shy of invincible. She knows it’s mostly an act, even with her genetic advantage, but it’s easy to be mislead by confidence, especially _ hers, _all smiles and reassurances even when they’re piggybacked off of blind hope. Yaz has stamped her as impenetrable, unbreakable — the strongest person she knows. 

And now she can barely stand. 

What’s almost worse is the fact that she can do something about it, and she _ knows it. _Sure, the TARDIS navigation systems are out of whack, that isn’t a complete lie, but Yaz knows she’s just using that as her excuse because she doesn’t have any other. 

Unless she does. There’s still something she isn’t telling them, but the unsaid leaves Yaz under the impression that it’s either too personal for comfort, or something she wouldn’t approve of. Maybe both. 

Yaz isn’t quite angry, but she simmers somewhere just a notch below. The Doctor is the smartest person she’s ever met; an absolute genius, proving it in a different way every day. And for a genius, she’s being awfully stupid. 

Sometimes Yaz gives up on trying to understand her, sometimes she obsesses over it for hours. Neither of those will be acceptable today. 

She swallows the frustration lodged in her throat, clouding her eyes, stiffening her limbs. 

_ Come on, PC Khan, do what you can. _The circumstances are far from ideal, the Doctor’s stubbornness leaves a concern-fueled bitterness near the back of Yaz’s tongue, but at the end of the day, the Doctor is ill, and Yaz can help. 

She takes a steadying breath to compose herself before letting herself into the lab. 

The atmosphere she left it in wasn’t comfortable, but nothing like the tension she walks into now. Graham and Ryan are off to the side, fiddling with interesting pieces of equipment, distracting and distancing themselves from the building commotion on the other end. Initially, there’s no obvious indication from Griffon that any type of unfortunate conversation was had. 

But the Doctor’s head is hanging low, with a weakness not from her ailment, but from her shame. Yaz can see it in her eyes that take serious interest in the floor, the hand that fists in the fabric of her trousers, and above all, her brooding silence. 

Griffon is hunched over his own workstation but he stands to open a cupboard, sits back down with a vial in hand. He only lasts a couple moments fiddling with the insides before he’s going red, fingers curling tight around the vile and all but slamming it onto the table. 

“You should have _ told me _you were telepathic.” 

The Doctor winces, slowly lifting her head to look at him and attempting to worm some lightness into her tone. “Not usually the first thing I bring up when doing introductions.” 

“Well maybe you should start.” Griffon disregards the vial and crosses the lab to examine the Doctor’s previously written guide, flicking through the pages quickly with twitching fingers and a vein pulsing at his forehead. 

“We’re on track.” The Doctor reassures hopefully, lifting her head a bit more. 

“_ I’m _on track, you mean.” He grumbles, dropping the papers onto his workbench and bending over them, forehead creased. “Because you can’t stay here.” 

“On the contrary. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Yaz holds her breath as Griffon turns around, stares the Doctor down with incredulous interest coated with skepticism. 

“You’re telepathic. Mantrovon 7 will kill you.” 

“I was here for the conversation two minutes ago, you know.” 

“It will _ kill you. _” 

“Not if we work quick, which we are. Besides, you need my TARDIS for the last leg of the plan.” 

Griffon blinks, her offer and the stakes attached taking a minute to wash over him. “You’re really willing to risk it?” 

The Doctor sits a little straighter, weak as she is, and nods. “You lot need me. I’m not going anywhere til Mantrovon is safe.” 

Yaz’s heart sinks, and she curses herself for even considering the possibility that Griffon would be able to talk some sense into her. He didn’t try hard, but can she blame him? His planet is dying, his people are dying, and the Doctor is his only hope. 

If a stranger turned up on Yaz’s doorstep during her darkest hour with the miracle she’d been waiting for, Yaz probably would have responded the same. 

“Alright then.” Griffon nods, and his recent anxieties slowly drain from his eyes. “Let’s get on with it.” 

Yaz spares a moment to give the Doctor a quick once over from where she stands. The highs of the planet’s effects on her must be coming in waves, because she looks a little sturdier than she did a few minutes ago, if just managing to hold yourself upright counts as sturdy. There’s no longer any denying that she’s ill, but she looks far more capable than she did slumped on the floor, eyes more focused now, the tremor to her hands less obvious. She looks okay _ just _enough for Yaz to join the boys instead of sitting at her side. 

“Could’ve gone worse.” Graham offers, leaning back against a counter top while Ryan hovers his finger over a rather exciting looking button on a machine that could be a microwave, could be a deadly weapon. 

“Don’t touch that.” Griffon calls, and Ryan drops his hand like an anchor. 

“Sorry.” 

“Could have.” Yaz agrees quietly, plopping into a chair with a poorly concealed sigh. Her ever building concern for the Doctor is nearly physical, dipping into her supply of energy and leaving her already feeling a bit wrung out. The not-anger doesn’t help. 

“Best we keep an eye on her, one of us at least.” Graham folds his arms, and Yaz follows his resting gaze to the Doctor slouched over her work, forehead resting in the palm of her hand. 

Ryan hops up to sit on the countertop. “It’s weird, seein’ her like this.” He nods in her direction. “At least on Tsuranga she still managed to move about like a balloon man.” 

Yaz just shakes her head, exasperated and finding herself unable to look away despite what a sore sight she is. “I’m worried about her. I know how much they need her help but she’s not looking after herself.” 

Graham’s hand falls onto her shoulder, squeezing softly then giving it a pat. “She’ll be alright, Yaz. If anything, Griffon will keep things moving, we’ll just keep _ her _moving, yeah?” He glances at the Doctor pointedly then back to Yaz. 

“Should we be telling Branton?” Ryan asks. 

“No.” The Doctor lifts her head, glaring at him from across the lab. They, including Griffon, snap to curious attention. 

“Eavesdropping?” Yaz quips, only mildly threateningly, and the Doctor lets out a tired sigh. 

“It’s not the spaciest lab in the universe.” She offers, lazily waving her hand in their direction. “And you weren’t exactly whispering.” 

“You’ll have to tell Branton, he’ll figure it out the second he looks at you.” Griffon challenges. 

“I know, just —” She trails off with the faintest of groans, head falling forward into her hand. “Let him figure it out, don’t go bug him with something he doesn’t necessarily need to know.” 

Ryan nods, satisfied enough. 

Yaz winces, knowing how fearful the Doctor must be of taking away the little bit of hope Branton has.

“Anything we can be doing to help?” Graham asks. 

“Actually — Ryan?” The Doctor lifts her head again and Ryan perks up. “How steady are your hands feeling?” 

“Half and half, the usual.” He shrugs. “Why?” 

She dips her hand into her pocket to retrieve a pair of welding goggles and sets them on the table in front of her, nodding to the disassembled base of the machine now in physical progress on the floor. 

Ryan gawks at her, silently crossing the room to pick up the goggles and inspect them. “What, you want me to weld?” 

“Yeah, easy stuff, just seal those bits there together.” She gestures to the sturdy metal plates. “They fit together like a puzzle, you’ll see.” 

“You want me to _ weld _the machine that’s supposed to save an entire planet. I’ve only just started two days ago!” 

“There’s no mechanics going into that bit. It doesn’t have to be perfect, just as long as it doesn’t fall apart. You can do that, can’t you?” 

The short back and forth leaves her a bit out of breath, and there’s the quietest glimpse of a plea in her eye. Ryan skips over his next few anxieties to give her a shallow nod. “Sure.” 

“Basic stuff.” She reminds him, dipping her head again. “Torch is back there.” 

Yaz can’t help but smile a bit, amused by Ryan’s uncertainty but knowing that if the Doctor trusts him, he’s perfectly capable. 

“You got a kitchen anywhere, Griff?” Graham inquires, and Ryan rolls his eyes. 

“Down the hall on the right.” He informs without looking up, gesturing to the door. 

“The food here safe for us, Doc?” 

She hums in confirmation, scribbling over a blueprint. 

“I’ll grab us some snacks, then.” Graham says cheerfully, but Yaz stands up before he can move.

“I’ll do it.” It’s getting harder by the second, watching the Doctor deteriorate before her eyes, and she could use a brief change of scenery. Graham nods his assent, settling back against the countertop. 

It’s a only a little bit tempting to take a step back and pretend that the Doctor is perfectly fine. Yaz doesn’t _ have _ to fuss over her, doesn’t have to keep an eye on her, and maybe it would serve her right for them all to ignore her as much as she’s ignoring herself. 

But unfortunately, that just isn’t Yaz, and she finds herself crossing the lab regardless to hover at the Doctor’s side, feigning interest in her work as she listens to her labored breathing. 

“How are you feeling?” She dares to ask, not expecting a straight answer, but she can’t help it. She lays her palm over the Doctor’s forehead, hot and clammy against her skin, and while the Doctor squints under her touch, she doesn’t shift away. If anything, she seems to relax a bit, and if Yaz didn’t know any better she’d say she was leaning into the contact. 

“I’m alright, Yaz.” She deflects, as expected, and Yaz drops her hand with a quiet sight. 

“I’ll get you some water.” Her concern once again outweighs the irritation coiling in her chest, and Yaz gives Graham a pointed look, cocking her head in the Doctor’s direction as she walks to the exit. 

Graham dips his head in understanding, meeting Yaz’s eye confidently. _ I’ve got her. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! Reviews are always appreciated


	8. Dependence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One day, she’ll have served her purpose, and she can sleep. But not yet, there’s still far too much to do. There always seems to be far too much to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t even try with my chapter titles I’m so bad at them, but you get the gist. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for the response to the last chapter!! I’m glad I picked this back up, plus it’s just plain exciting to write because I’ve had it in my head for sooo long. 
> 
> I’m thinking this is gonna have 13 (hah) chapters when it’s finished?? I guarantee you, I will always find ways to drag out the Doctor’s suffering without it diminishing the plot (i think) but things are gonna pick up a bit in the next couple of chapters I PROMISE

The only current occupants in the lab are Graham, the Doctor, and the Doctor’s foul mood. 

Mere minutes after Yaz returned with a plate of what were _ most likely _biscuits and fruits the Doctor insisted the lot of them get some rest, and they, especially Yaz, insisted they didn’t need it. 

A bit of negotiating left Graham on watch duty, but the majority of the debate was with Yaz. He’s never seen her so on edge, so fretful, insisting that she be the one to hang back and keep a watchful eye. Graham was having none of that; Yaz’s anxieties were draining the energy right from her eyes, and a single loved one to worry about is enough. 

Griffon disappeared a while after that, muttering something about extra supplies on his way out that Graham didn’t pay much mind to. The Doctor, thankfully, didn’t try very hard to convince Graham to get some shut eye as well. She’ll likely never admit it, but he knows she prefers the company. 

A quick glance at his watch tells him it’s coming up on two hours since Yaz and Ryan went for a kip, and he promised after much of Yaz’s insistence to wake them up on the dot. Even two hours seemed to be pushing her boundaries of comfort, so he’s adamant on not getting distracted from the time. 

The Doctor’s growing frustrated with herself, he can tell. The wrinkles at her brow are prominent, eyes narrowed and fingers spasming against her temple as she struggles to make sense of the information laid out in front of her plain as day. 

“Want me to read it out for you?” Graham offers as respectfully and considerately as he can, dancing around her fierce need for independence. She hates asking for help, so he doesn’t expect her to. 

“I’ve got it.” Her tone is brisk, short and irritated, but Graham doesn’t take it to heart. 

“Head feelin’ foggy?” 

“I’m _ fine _, Graham.” 

No point in arguing. She could have a knife sticking out of her chest and still say she’s fine. Graham checks his watch again — he’s still got five minutes before it’s time to wake up the kids. 

The Doctor sets her pencil down and runs the back of her hand over her eyes. Her hair is covering most of her face, but Graham doesn’t have to see it to know she’s frowning. What he doesn’t see coming, however, when blonde locks are wisped out of the way by a heavy sigh, are the hot tears pooling in her eyes and refusing to fall. 

She closes her eyes for a second, opens them again, and the heartbreaking sight is but a memory. He’ll never be able to unsee that, because the Doctor doesn’t just _ cry. _He’s not sure if it’s the pain, the distress, or the sheer anguish of the situation she’s in, but whatever the reason, the brief image will be seared into his head for the rest of his life. He realizes that even now, ill, exhausted and hardly upright, she’s still managing to hold onto the fragments of her barriers. Even now, when she needs her friends the most, she’s doing everything she can to keep them from witnessing her crumble entirely. 

She’s gonna have to get used to being anything less than perfectly capable. She needs them, and they need to be able to help. 

Graham nearly asks her if she’s okay, but it goes against his better judgement. He can’t hold his tongue, however, when she lowers one foot from the bar of the stool to the floor, and looks like she’s about to try and stand. _ On her own. _

“The hell are you doing?” Graham stands from his seat immediately, reaching her side before she has the chance to fall. 

“Need to stretch my legs.” She says it in a whisper, shoulders hunched eyes barely open. 

“You gonna let me help you?” 

She actually dares to consider it first, as if she has an option, as if she won’t hit the floor within seconds if she stands without support. 

But finally, she nods, miserable and defeated, and Graham bends forward to sling her arm over his shoulders. 

On top of his concern, Graham can’t help but feel more than a tad sorry for her. She’s always made a point to maintain her position in the stratosphere, capable and commanding. She’s the one _ they _look to when they need a hand, typically not the other way around. She tries really, really hard to appear invincible, and always just manages to succeed, even when she’s at her lows. Even when deep down, Graham knows better. 

She must be miserable right now, stripped bare of what she believes to define her. He wishes she could grasp that they see her for so much more than her capabilities. 

Arm around her waist, he guides the Doctor to her feet. She’s hardly supporting any of her own weight, she’s quite heavy and droopy, but conscious and not keeling over at least. That’ll have to be good enough for now. 

They take a few steps — if her shuffling even counts as steps — before Graham hears a faint groan and her head begins to sag. 

“Oh no you don’t.” He lowers her into the closest available seat before she can go limp entirely, hands on her shoulders as she sways and blinks sluggishly. 

_ “Ow.” _It’s so quiet, so reluctant and somehow a final sign of defeat in the single word. Brow pinched tight in discomfort, she lays a hand over her eyes and bows her head into it. 

“Alright?” She’s breathing shallowly, shakily, and Graham rubs her back without even thinking about it. Even through two shirts and a coat he can feel heat radiating from her skin. 

She only hums, leaning into the desk she’s now sat next to, and lowers the hand over her eyes to investigate when Graham begins tugging at the shoulders of her coat. 

“Need to cool you down a bit, love, give me your arm.” She doesn’t even argue, holding one out with a bit of a struggle for Graham to slip it out of her coat sleeve. 

His heart flutters in an almost painful way, because it feels a bit too much like taking care of a child. Dependent without a say, trusting without a choice. 

He helps her out of her coat and drapes it over the back of the chair, slipping around front to kneel down to her eye level. “Doc, look at me.” 

She does, and Graham’s heart breaks all over again at the sight of her eyes, glazed with pain and a burden he can’t begin to fathom. 

“Are you sure you can do this?” 

She doesn’t look sure, she doesn’t even necessarily look _ hopeful, _ and Graham tries not to dissect the expression too much because hope _ less _isn’t an option. Not for them, and especially not for her. 

Somehow, someway, she speaks with enough feigned confidence that Graham allows himself to believe it. 

“I have to.” 

That’s also something he has to keep himself from disassembling and analyzing under a microscope, and pleads to whatever forces may be that the trust he’s placing in her won’t be to her downfall. 

“I need to go wake Ryan and Yaz.” He straightens, and her hand goes back to it’s spot over her eyes. “You alright here for a mo’?” 

Her nod is slight, mindful of her headache. “Pass me my stuff?” 

Graham glances back to her abandoned workstation, littered with notes and bits and bobs he’s not even gonna take a stab at identifying, and transports them to her new spot with full arms and three back and forth trips. 

Before he leaves, he notices her untouched cup of water and sets it in front of her as well, sliding it within arm’s reach and tapping her on the shoulder to get her attention. 

“Drink.” He nods to the cup and the Doctor grumbles something annoyed and incomprehensible, but Graham spares a glance back on his way out and is pleased to find her taking small sips, holding the cup with both hands. 

He sighs as he shuts the door, and and the fearful churning in his stomach is suddenly much more apparent. 

* * *

The Doctor lowers her water onto the desk, and glances at the closed door to ensure Graham has left the room. 

She wastes no time bowing in on herself and leaning forward onto the desk. Her head is pounding something furious, neverending, and even the movement of the shortest of breaths seems to rattle her skull into something hardly tolerable. She clenches her fists, and she’s too weak to even squeeze hard enough to feel her nails press into her palms. 

For one terrible, _ frightening _moment, the Doctor isn’t sure if she’s gonna make it. 

She didn’t factor her dwindling processing power into the day ahead. She’s got a while before her organs start to shut down, but far less before she’s down for the count. 

It’s taking every scrap of energy from nearly dry reserves just to stay awake, let alone connect point A to point B. She’s eternally grateful she has Griffon on hand, a skilled and capable scientist who can actually think in a straight line. Good thing she made that step-by-step guide. 

She’s also, moreso every second, eternally grateful for her friends. She didn’t want them to see her like this if she could help it — it’s embarrassing, it’s demeaning, in a way, and accepting their support does not at all come naturally. 

But the Doctor knows, painfully so, she wouldn’t be able to do this alone. She hates it, with every fiber of her being she _ hates _how much she’s having to rely on them, but she can’t change it. 

And if she’s stuck depending on anyone, well — at least they’re kind. At least it’s _ her _fam. 

She can do it. Few more hours. _ She can do it. _

The Doctor hears the click of the door and doesn’t bother trying to straighten up before she has company. 

Yaz is at the front of the line with a damp flannel in hand and grey shadows under her eyes, and the Doctor guesses she didn’t sleep a wink. 

Ryan on the other hand, looks like he’s still trying to wake up, plopping into a seat a couple down the line from her own. “How’s it goin’?”

“Goin’.” The Doctor rolls her head, pillowed on her arms, to face him. “Nice nap?” 

She hears Yaz rolling a chair up next to her on her other side, feels fretful eyes looking her up and down. 

“Comfy sofa.” Ryan smiles. “How d’you feel?” 

“Oh, you know.” Yaz’s mercifully cool hand is on the back of her neck for a moment before it’s replaced with the cloth, and the Doctor lets it happen. “Might not come first place in sprinting today.” 

“You’d come in second though, right?” 

A small, pleased smile creeps across her face. “Of course.” 

Ryan chuckles, and it’s times like these that the Doctor really appreciates how carefree that boy is. He’s good at rolling with the punches — keeping a light heart and a cheery tone despite the circumstances. It’s reassuring, and she wonders if he’s doing it on purpose. 

He busies himself with sudden interest in the slightly more assembled machine Griffon has added onto his contribution. It’s not the most elegant piece of work, but it got the job done, and she was beaming with pride when he showed her his finished project either way. 

“Need a hand?” Yaz asks lightly, and she at least doesn’t _ sound _ as upset as she did before. The Doctor slowly rolls her head slowly to face her and hums an agreement. She knows better at this point than to even try telling Yaz no. 

Yaz helps her sit up with one hand against her chest and another holding her shoulder, and the Doctor settles against the back of the desk chair with a slow, composing breath. 

“Right.” She refocuses on the task in front of her. The wobble has come and gone, or at the very least, she tells herself that until she believes. “Someone pass me a biscuit?” 

* * *

So the biscuit was a bad idea. The five that came after it were a much worse idea. Turns out she’s one for comfort food. 

Graham and Yaz had to collectively support her from both sides and half guide, half drag her across the lab to a rubbish bin in _ just _the nick of time before the biscuits were ancient history. 

Someone passes her a flannel to wipe her mouth and Yaz drops the hand that was holding her hair out of her face to settle on the Doctor’s back, who’s finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. Throwing up definitely wasn’t this taxing last time, whenever the last time was. 

Soon the Doctor’s knees are buckling, her body is slumping, and she can’t do a thing about it. 

“Yaz...” Her warning isn’t even needed, because Yaz is already controlling her descent to the floor and settling her against the wall. 

She’s not sure when she closed her eyes but the Doctor does as she’s told when Graham orders her to open them back up. Sleep is a compelling concept at the moment, tempting her into its clutches, and she has half a mind to give in. 

“Doctor, this is going too far.” She hears the distress in Yaz’s voice before she finds it in her eyes. “We need to get you home.” 

“No.” She lightly shakes her head and immediately regrets it, but leaving is _ not _an option. “Yaz, I can't, I —” 

“_ Why _ can’t you?” Yaz almost sounds like she’s about to cry and oh — _ oh, Yaz, please don’t cry, you have to understand — _

“Doc,” Graham’s tone is much more controlled, but still wavers in his uncertainty. “Look, I know these people need you, believe you me, I...” His voice catches in his throat, and for the briefest of moments, the Doctor sees his eyes go somewhere far off. “These aren’t my people, but Ryan and I saw a lot out there, and it really doesn’t feel right trying to convince you to…” He doesn’t say _ let them die, _but she knows he’s thinking it. “But at this point —”

“You’re not gonna make it.” Ryan states it simply, matter-of-fact and catching her eye with ones brimming with something on the edge of panic, a stark contrast to the lighthearted nature he’s managed to maintain since they arrived. The Doctor has to do a double take. 

“Look, we can go back to the TARDIS, take you to Sheffield or something so you can get better.” Yaz says it like she’s already made the decision for her, and the Doctor almost shakes her head again. “Then you can come back to finish the job before anyone even notices you’ve left. I know you don’t want to risk overshooting but —”

“_ Yaz. _ ” The Doctor breathes, flicks her gaze over Ryan’s and Graham’s as well, and she _ really _doesn’t want to have this conversation right now. “I can’t leave —”

“— What happened?” Yaz cuts her off, and that almost-anger burning right behind her eyes is now layered with something much more serious, much more intense, and the Doctor suddenly feels like she’s backed into a corner. “Whatever it is you’re not telling us, you need to tell us.” 

She really doesn’t want to hear herself say it out loud. 

“You said something about not wanting to get it wrong again.” Ryan finally comes to join the cluster, sitting on the floor in front of her between Graham and Yaz. “What did you mean?” 

She doesn’t answer, almost closes her eyes instead. 

“Doc, you have to talk to us if you want us to just stand around while you run yourself into the ground. What happened?” 

The Doctor draws her arms around herself, suddenly longing for the comforting weight of her coat. It helps her to feel hidden; armoured, when she’s at her most vulnerable, but she’s certain those three fierce and relentless gazes would pierce straight through it.

“I…” It’s not any easier to admit it, now that she doesn’t have a choice. But Yaz takes her hand, grounding and reassuring despite the flames in her eyes, and the Doctor manages to take a steady breath. “I’ve never been here before. That wasn’t a lie.” 

They nod, expecting more, and Graham speaks next. “And?” 

The shame of her own weakness, the _ stupidity _ of her younger self gets caught in her throat, and she has to force the words out like tar through a straw. “It was… a _ really _ long time ago. Much longer for me than it was for them, but…” She tries to swallow around it, but the lump in her throat doesn’t go away. “They sent me a distress call, back when all of this started. When it _ first _ started.” _ When I could have _ easily _ done something about it, nipped it in the bud, spared all those lives — _

“So you knew?” It’s not accusing, it rarely is coming from Graham, merely inquisitive. 

“Not really, I —” Her hands feel about as heavy as iron as she lifts them, digging the heels of her palms into her eyes. “I don’t think I thought much of it at the time. But they asked me for help, they _ needed _ my help, and at that point in time it would have been fairly easy. Would’ve been in and out, but…” Her words catch again, the tendons in her neck twitching. “I just… _ ignored _ it. I was too busy galavanting, too scared to even _ risk _ getting ill that I just… _ didn’t do anything. _” 

“Doesn’t sound like you.” Ryan says, head tilted considerately, unimpacted. 

Yaz, on the other hand, is entirely unreadable. 

“I could’ve saved them.” She breathes, chest tight and eyes watering. “_ All _ of them. I could have saved _ all _ of them, but I was selfish, I was scared, I was… an _ idiot _ .” She lowers her hands, and her head droops with the weight of the confession. “And hundreds of people paid the price. Children are orphaned, husbands and wives are widowed, this entire planet is _ dying, _ all because I was _ scared. _” 

There’s a beat of silence on the receiving end, and she doesn’t dare look up. 

“Are you scared now?” Yaz asks timidly, not a single trace of anger in her voice any longer. 

The Doctor grits her teeth, weakly curls her fingers into the material of her trousers, because she _ is. _ She’s not even sure what she’s scared _ of _ , because it’s not dying. Not any longer. Being alive is preferable, but she’s lived so long, seen so much, _ done _so much, that death as a concept has become nothing more than an out of reach offering of peace. One day, she’ll have served her purpose, and she can sleep. But not yet, there’s still far too much to do. There always seems to be far too much to do. 

Starting right here, right now. She can’t sleep, not today, not tomorrow, because she’s _ needed, _even if some days she wishes she weren’t. 

But here, now… she doesn’t want to die. She realizes that now. 

It’s not a simple question, but she gives it a simple answer. “Yeah.” She breathes out heavily, and the coil in her stomach eases up. The confession is the final blow, her physical and emotional energy fully seeping out of her system, but she feels _ better _somehow, someway, for admitting it. “Yeah, I’m scared.” 

The honesty seems to put them a little more at ease as well, for some reason. She can’t fathom why. 

Her body is slumping sideways before she can register that she’s losing consciousness, but Yaz is there to catch her. The Doctor allows her eyes to flutter closed, and feels herself so gently, so caringly guided onto her back. 

She cracks them open once more, barely holding on, but she needs to know what they’re thinking, what they’re feeling — are they angry? Are they disappointed? Do they _ hate _her, now that they know? 

And she should know better, because of course they don’t. They may be no less fearful, no less fretful, but she can see in on their faces — softened eyes and sealed lips. _ They understand. _

And she just has to hope they understand enough not to drag her back to the TARDIS while she’s unconscious. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof


	9. Do What You Can

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaz sweetie I’m so sorry I’m making you put up with the Doctor’s shit like this

Yaz has never experienced an uncertainty quite like this.

She cradles the Doctor’s head in her lap with an almost maternal tenderness that Yaz didn’t know she was capable of, hands on her cheeks as she searches closed eyes for signs of lucidity. 

But the Doctor is still, save for the quakes and tremors that Yaz can feel under her skin and see in her hands. Expression inanimate and lacking all those wrinkles and pinches and smiles and frowns that cause Yaz’s heart to flutter every time, and she just looks so  _ lifeless  _ without them. Yaz has never even seen her sleep,  _ properly  _ sleep before today. Even the simple sight of closed, unresponsive eyes leaves her feeling sick. 

Her hearts are beating faster than they should, two fingers against the pulse point in her neck reveal, and every few minutes she’ll mutter something strained and entirely incomprehensible. She’s not sleeping peacefully. 

Griffon’s back, finally, pushing the door open with three stacked boxes in his arms that he immediately deposits onto the closest available surface. He takes a moment to catch his breath, one hand passing over his forehead, then a mindless gaze collapses into dread once it finds the Doctor. “She’s not —”

“ _ No. _ ” Yaz, Ryan and Graham all hurry to interject. 

“No, she’s —” Yaz falters, transfixed on those closed eyes, and she slides one hand into her friend’s hair to smooth it away from her face. “She’s just sleeping.” 

Griffon looks like he’s about to say something else, but Graham shoots him a warning glance that he doesn’t combat. 

“I can do this bit without her.” He says it more to himself than the rest of them. 

The Doctor’s empty expression contorts a bit in her sleep, forehead creased and eyelids fluttering. For a moment, Yaz watches her close, and isn’t sure whether to be relieved or distressed when she doesn’t open them. 

On one hand, she needs the rest. On the other, there is a very real possibility that she might not wake up. 

They had a quick conversation, the three of them, shortly after the Doctor passed out. Ryan raised the question hanging in the air, that Yaz was thinking — that they  _ all  _ had been thinking:  _ Should we take her home?  _

Against their better judgement, they don’t. 

Now would be the time, if they did. Now could be the  _ only  _ time to drag her onto the bus, hope she doesn’t wake up on the drive, and pray TARDIS is having a good enough day to take them where they need to go. 

It’s tempting, more and more with every passing second, every time she lets out a little groan or twists her fingers in the material of her shirt. Even in unconsciousness, she can’t find any relief, and Yaz curses the universe itself for it. 

They should take her back. They  _ want  _ to take her back, but they don’t. They can’t. 

Because now, in some shape or twisted form, they understand. And they decided together after a long, emotionally clouded debate, that to go against her wishes and take advantage of her condition would be too much of a violation. Even if it’s for her own good. 

Yaz wishes it were that simple. Yaz  _ wishes  _ that were enough to settle the swarm of carnivorous butterflies in the pit of her stomach. She knows, she  _ knows  _ they should take her home — but they can’t do that to her. They can’t fathom the guilt she’s feeling, the responsibility she‘s placed on herself, and this is the  _ Doctor.  _ As much as it hurts to watch, as much as their optimism fades with every moment, the Doctor, more than anyone they know, has the right to make her own choices. And she’s chosen to right her wrongs. 

What’s hardest, is the fact that Doctor did what  _ anyone  _ else would have done on the surface. Someone she’d never met from a deadly planet she’d never been to asked for help, and the Doctor said no. If anything, the anecdote simply tells Yaz that the Doctor used to be a  _ whole _ lot better at taking care of herself. She acted out of self preservation, nothing more. They can’t blame her for that, and they don’t. 

But she blames herself, and  _ that,  _ as much as she doesn’t want to, Yaz understands. Because she knows her better than she thinks. 

The Doctor would die for this planet that she’s never been to, for these people she’s never met, and for a heavy instant, Yaz loathes her for it. 

But it’s this, and all the other acts of self sacrifice she’s seen her friend commit so effortlessly, so mindlessly, that Yaz  _ admires  _ her for.  _ Loves her for.  _ It’s who she is now. Self-constructed into the sole healer of the universe. Everyone’s doctor. 

_ Is this admirable?  _ Yaz questions herself, fingertips soothing the distressed lines at the Doctor’s brow. 

Yes. It’s stupid, and it’s quite possibly suicide. But it’s admirable. 

And it shouldn’t be. 

This shouldn’t even be her responsibility, but she’s  _ made  _ it her responsibility, and none of them have the right to force her into anything else. 

“She’s still got a day.” Yaz says quietly with forced hope, shifting for a more comfortable position on the floor, back against the wall, that she doesn’t find. “Before…” 

“How bad is it gonna get before then, though?” Ryan wonders aloud, timid, like it’s a question he doesn’t want to ask. “How bad before she’s…” 

“Beyond recovery?” Graham seems to be holding it together well on the surface, but his voice is just as pained and conflicting as Yaz’s heart feels. “Won’t come to that. She’s strong, have a little faith.” 

They do, and it’s dwindling every hour. 

* * *

The Doctor’s eyes are cracked open long before she can be considered clinically conscious. It’s slow going, and she doesn’t rush it. 

There are cool fingers tracing her cheeks, and for a wonderful moment it’s the only sensation in existence. The debilitating ache in her bones, the  _ banging  _ in her skull, the strain of her lungs as she gives up on drawing in a full breath are entirely drowned out by the gentle hands against her skin. For a blissful,  _ merciful _ instant — everything is quiet. Everything is okay. 

Yaz’s face swims into her narrowed field of view, she says something, and as much as the Doctor tries she can’t quite make it out. It's not happy, she can deduce that much. 

The caress becomes a light tap, then a slightly more insistent one, and the dimness to the world jolts into blinding, agonizing color. 

The Doctor’s eyes fly open to their fullest capacity and her chest heaves, her hands fly to whatever anchor is closest and she realizes, in a silent frenzy, that she can’t breathe. 

All she can do is panic, and her hearts are thundering angrily and dangerously in protest but she just  _ can’t  _ manage more than the shortest of gasps, quick and repetitive, and squeeze her anchor like the lifeline it is. She realizes then that she’s holding another pair of hands, curling around her fingers as if  _ she’s  _ the anchor. 

Someone says the word  _ oxygen,  _ and she hopes it’s a request to someone besides herself. An infinite supply around her, and she’s bone dry. 

She counts six hands grabbing her shoulders, supporting her back, and only vaguely registers the sensation of being sat upright and someone instructing her to take deep breaths that just won’t come. She counts the hands over and over as if distracting herself will help. 

“ _ Hang in there, Doc. _ ” Sound flickers in and out, like the volume is being cranked up then switched to mute, but she makes out the simple request. Sways in its direction. 

Blackness is creeping around the edges of her vision, dancing stars conglomerate into clusters and shield her view more and more — then there’s something cold being shoved over her mouth and nose. 

The Doctor finally manages to draw in a wheezy inhale, shaky and stuttering, but it’s there. She can breathe. 

Reality begins to show itself and voices become a tad clearer. A few breaths later, and she’s painfully aware of her friends crouched in an anxious fashion in front of her, wide eyed and not daring to move. 

Yaz is closest, holding an oxygen mask to the Doctor’s face and squeezing her hand, and while it’s difficult to tell, the Doctor thinks she’s shaking. 

And when Yaz speaks, it’s watery and shattered around the edges, and the Doctor knows she’s most definitely been crying. “Are you okay?” 

She nods, just barely, and it’s all she can do for a moment. Eyes closed, opening again when Graham gives the order, and she focuses on her breaths — in and out, in and out, slow and controlled. She really takes oxygen for granted sometimes. 

Griffon is hovering somewhere just behind them, standing and observing, and the Doctor immediately looks somewhere else when she finds something far too close to hopelessness in his eyes. 

“You really freaked us out, there.” Ryan rawly admits, perturbed and uneasy. 

“‘m sorry.” She carefully rolls her head against the wall to face him, fatigue gripping every inch of her being, and hopes that he knows she means it. “Bit of a… rude awakening myself.” 

“Stop talking. Catch your breath.” Yaz says simply, the Doctor sluggishly shifts her gaze and realizes oh —  _ oh no,  _ Yaz is  _ still  _ crying _ .  _

The Doctor nearly opens her mouth again to splutter an automatic reassurance, but has just enough sense to know there’s not a thing she can say that’ll ease her mind. Not until they’re off this planet. 

She takes a couple more minutes to breathe, ground herself, and do her best to knit her swampy mind into something closer to coherent. She comes close enough. “How long?” 

“Were you out?” Ryan clarifies when no one is sure. “Couple hours, give or take.” 

She groans a bit at that, hunching forward and trying to wake her body up, and covers Yaz’s hand with her own to lower the obstructive mask from her face. “Status update, Griff?” Yaz moves it right back into place, and the Doctor doesn’t fight. 

“I… think we’re still on track.” He runs a hand through his short hair. “I’ve got questions, though.” 

“I’ve got answers.” 

“And there’s still no chance of convincing you to take a break?” Graham already knows, but can’t help but hope. 

“I just had one.” She dismisses, and knows very well that’s not what he meant. 

The Doctor presses a hand against her sternum as she stabilizes to the best of her current ability, barely willing to move a muscle more, painfully aware that she must. 

“Help me up?” She makes a point to sound a little stronger than she’s feeling, blinks to steady her focus, but disheartened frowns don’t right themselves and sorrowed hearts continue to thud their beat of distress. She longs to switch off her senses, because the look on their faces is worse than the physical pain. 

They’re worrying themselves to death, all for her, and maybe she should confront it. Apologize for dragging them into this and dropping them onto the front line of her own battle, unarmed and defenseless. She knows, even if it’s difficult to acknowledge, that they care for her very, very deeply. This is probably harder on them than it is for her. 

She doesn’t have the time or energy to do anything but push their fretting to the furthest corner of her mind she can access. 

“Give yourself a minute.” A plea masked as an order, and the Doctor obeys,  _ simply  _ because it’s Yaz, and maybe doing as she says will lighten her load. 

The Doctor sits still a moment longer, and Yaz still looks nearly as shattered as she feels. 

The door swings open, knocking against the wall with the force of the push. A frazzled, perplexed Branton stumbles in, expression frozen in a state of mortification as his gaze searches the messy lab for his friend. 

“Griffon,” His voice catches when he finds him, capturing his full attention — and the Doctor knows that look. Grief in its earliest form; grief that hasn’t even had the chance to breathe. “Mara’s child…” 

Graham and Ryan look to each other for confirmation — the name is familiar to them. Almost immediately, their faces sink into an anguish that nearly matches Branton’s. 

Griffon is statue still, his back is to the Doctor but she knows  _ that  _ look as well. Dread so cold it numbs you to the bone, and takes a cruel moment to settle in. 

His hand tightens around it’s grip on a wrench and he lowers it to the table, bracing himself against the edge. “Dead?” 

“Just a few minutes ago.” Branton’s grief, though, seems secondhand. Hurting on someone else’s behalf. “It was… only a matter of time.” He shuts his mouth quickly, like he’s chosen the wrong words. 

Griffon doesn’t move for a tensed, heavy beat, then he simply nods. 

Branton watches his colleague for a moment like he’s waiting for the fallout, but it never comes. Griffon busies himself like nothing was said. 

Then Branton’s gaze falls on the humans gathered on the floor, blinks like he’s just now noticing him, and then he meets the Doctor’s eye. 

Grief before it can be classified as such. That’s what she’s seeing on him now. 

“What…” He looks her frail, disheveled form up and down, vein in his forehead pulsing. “You said you  _ weren’t  _ affected by meziopholium —”

“‘m not.” The Doctor tries to sit up a little straighter, hold her head just a  _ tad  _ higher, anyway to show him she’s no less capable. Anything to keep the hope afloat that’s disintegrating right in front of her eyes. “It’s… it’s not that —”

“You  _ said —” _

“It’s  _ not that. _ ” The sudden burst of energy to her hollow voice surprises even herself. “I’m telepathic. It’s…” 

“Mantrovon.” Branton pales, fingers twitching and curling into fists. “Telepaths can’t  _ be  _ on Mantrovon!” 

“I know… I know.” The Doctor croaks, removing the mask from her face again and this time, Yaz allows it. “Nothing’s changed. I’m finishing what I started.” 

He lets her reassurance wash over him, and takes a lengthy moment to process it. 

“You’ll die if you stay.” He says it the same way Griffon said something similar — like a declaration of defeat, a pre-accepted loss of a final hope. Like he’s expecting her to say  _ oh, well in that case, I’ll leave you to it.  _

She could never. 

“We’ll be finished by sundown.” Her head swims, and she doesn’t register her struggle for oxygen until Yaz is guiding the mask back into place. “I’ve got time.” 

Another beat, and he’s searching her expression for something he won’t find. 

“Did you know?” The volume of his words plummet. “When you first got here?” 

“Figured it out pretty quick.” The Doctor smiles tiredly, mostly with her eyes to make sure he can see it. “We’ve got this, Branton. Don’t worry about it.” 

He looks to the humans then for confirmation, as if he already knows they’re less likely to sugarcoat. 

And the Doctor holds her breath, pleading silently, flicking her gaze over her friends’ faces and  _ praying  _ their emotions don’t betray her. 

They look uncertain, but they can’t help that. She’s not exactly making it easy for them to maintain their confidence, but to her merciful relief, they nod. 

“She can do it.” Ryan tells him simply. “Don’t worry.” 

Branton seems frozen in a state of — something the Doctor can’t quite identify. It’s too conflicting, too unsure, and she wonders how many times this man has come this close to a breakthrough only for it to all fall apart at the last possible second. 

He doesn’t speak again before excusing himself from the lab. 

Everyone, Griffon included, breathes out heavily when the door slams shut. 

“Help me up.” The Doctor says immediately, rolling her head towards Yaz and holding out a hand. “I have to finish this.” 

Yaz opens her mouth to speak, staring at the Doctor’s hand, and she looks at a complete loss. 

“Doc, you should let Griffon do the rest.” Graham tries, softened and desperate. “If he’s got questions, you’re right here, and —”

“ _ No. _ ” She snaps, and immediately regrets it when she sees the hurt look on Graham’s face. “No,” She reiterates, a bit softer, and let’s her hand fall back into her lap with a thud when it becomes too heavy to hold up. “It’s my fault they’re in this state right now. I have to play as much a part in this as I can.” 

Graham and Ryan look ready to combat just about every word that came out of her mouth, but they know it’ll be fruitless. 

“ _ Please. _ ” Her eyelids flutter, growing heavier with every blink. She digs deep for enough strength to lift her head off the wall, and look to Yaz with desperation stinging her eyes. “Help me up.” 

Yaz looks like she’s aged about a hundred years in the span of a day, and the Doctor finds all the worst emotions imaginable scribbled in a conflicting concoction all over her face. 

For the first time today, the Doctor still doesn’t regret her actions, but feels genuinely sorry. 

A final tear slides down Yaz’s cheek, and she does as she’s told. 

* * *

The sun is setting. 

Yaz has been doing the only thing she can for the past few hours: watching her, and staying close. The Doctor, remarkably, is still hanging onto consciousness like a cliff’s edge, like the world depends on her eyes just staying open. 

The weird machine looking like it’s composed of a piece from nearly every century stands almost at Yaz’s height now.  _ Surely  _ it’s almost finished. 

The Doctor has no strength to contribute, and it shows. She’s back at her empty workstation, hands idle and pillowing her forehead. Yaz bends over every few minutes to make sure her eyes are still open. 

They are — glossy and glazed and half fixed on Griffon’s fiddling every time. 

“Drink some water.” Yaz says, and it’s the first time she’s spoken in a while. She’s finding that keeping things clinical and narrow minded helps keep the broader picture at a slight distance. She’s done judging her, and done trying to change her mind, because  _ nothing  _ works, every plea and well made point falls on deaf ears, and it’s steadily breaking Yaz’s heart. 

All she can do is look after her. Try to make things a bit easier, and as comfortable as they can be. A cold flannel on the back of her neck, or her face on the rare occasion that she’s sitting upright, cup of water in reach, a hand to hold within arm’s length when the Doctor’s pain reaches the breaking point of tolerance. 

The Doctor just… sits there. Watching Griffon the whole time. She’s doing no better right here in this desk chair than she was on the floor, but for some reason being in a close proximity to the task at hand helps her feel useful. 

Griffon has questions every few minutes, and she has sluggish, drawled answers that are a visible struggle to recollect. 

Alien technology always leaves Yaz curious, and at least a bit impressed. Griffon’s hurried trip to the medical bay when the Doctor started having difficulty breathing procured a mask with no oxygen line, no visible source, and it otherwise remarkably resembles something you’d find in a hospital in Yaz’s own century. It’s clunky and it’s inner workings make no sense, but it gets the job done. 

Yaz hears a slight wheeze for the first time in a few minutes and automatically, like a dog responding to a clicker, puts a hand on the Doctor’s shoulder. “Sit up.” 

As usual, she needs a hand that she begrudgingly requests with an upturned palm, but doesn’t manage much more on her own part than slightly raising her head. 

Yaz helps her sit against the back of the chair, and the Doctor slumps, breathing shallowly until the oxygen mask is secured into place. Her eyes are closed and creased with discomfort, her head lolls forward limply and Yaz catches it with a hand on her cheek. 

“Hey.” She thumbs the soft, burning skin just beneath the Doctor’s eye as it cracks open, fever-bright and shining with agony. “Stay with me.” 

The Doctor only hums, blinking as her focus phases in and out, but her gaze manages not to wander. She holds Yaz’s eye with narrowed ones, impossibly worn and horrendously trusting, and Yaz has to look away. 

She picks up the Doctor’s hand and pushes the cup of water into it, and the Doctor’s fingers barely respond. Yaz keeps her hand securely over hers as she lowers the mask and guides the cup to her lips. 

Cold and clinical is what she tries for. By the book in accordance to her chosen routine of checking her pulse, her temperature, and listening for the strain of her lungs when they go on a mini break. Making her take sips of water any time she gets the chance, because even on a good day she forgets to do that. It doesn’t make her feel any better when she finds her fever has spiked or her hearts have begun to falter, but at least counting those foreign beats gives Yaz something to do. 

_ Do what you can,  _ Yaz reminds herself over, and over, and over.  _ Do what you can. _

She catches Ryan’s eye over the Doctor’s shoulder while she works to catch her breath. He’s standing still upon instruction, working as an extra set of hands for Griffon, and tries to lighten the air by nodding to where Graham is hunched in a corner, snoring his head off. It doesn’t bring the smile to Yaz’s face it normally would. 

“Alright?” Yaz ducks her head to catch the Doctor’s eye again. This time her focus is aimless, and she doesn’t react. 

_ Do what you can. Do what you can.  _

She’s run out of boxes to check. 

“How much longer?” Yaz asks instead, leaning sideways to catch sight of Griffon. 

He doesn’t answer, hands buried deep in the innerworks of the machine and biting his lip as he secures something into place. 

Yaz looks to Ryan, who only shrugs. 

“Griffon —”

“— I’m done.” He takes a large step back, hands held outward like he’s waiting for a card tower to fall. When everything stays intact he lets out a quick breath, darting to his desk to flick through the Doctor’s notes. “She should take a look, but —”

“ _ It’s done _ ?” Yaz stands abruptly, one hand still on the Doctor’s shoulder on the off chance she falls forward, and can’t contain the laugh of relief that bubbles from her chest. “We can leave?” 

“It won’t work without her ship, but after that…” Griffon allows himself the privilege of taking the weight off his feet and slumping into a chair, finally feeling like he’s earned it. “Yeah.” 

Ryan is overjoyed, already darting around the lab to gather abandoned belongings, and the tight coil in Yaz’s heart eases and unwinds into an overwhelming sense of relief. 

They can’t get off this planet soon enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are looking up?? Maybe??? 
> 
> Thanks for reading, hang in there!! More “fun” to come.


	10. Almost There, Almost There

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit late on this one but hello!! Let’s crank that angst up a notch

Breathe.

She needs to open her eyes. 

_ Breathe. _

Every atom of her existence is screaming at the top of it’s lungs, _ move! _

_ Breathe. _

_ You’re almost there. _

She can feel the shift of the light on her eyelids, shadows darting back and forth. People are hustling around her, voices filter through the fog encompassing her brain into muffled whispers, and it all _ feels _so close, but sounds so far out of reach. She’s at the bottom of the ocean and they’ve only just penetrated the water. 

_ Breathe. _

It’s the best she can do right now. 

Keeping hold of that thinning thread of consciousness feels a bit like drowning. Every minute gets harder, every second she gets further away from the rays of light glistening through the rippling surface. Occasionally she finds the strength to drag herself back up, one strong, hopeful stroke, and she teeters there for a moment — floating somewhere not up, not down, but in some conscious middle ground, and then she’s sinking again. 

Her head hurts so much that it nearly doesn’t; an agonizing subroutine of some of the worst pain she’s _ ever _felt that’s been building and piling and accumulating relentlessly and now, she can barely register it. She’s nearly numb, but not quite enough. 

It’s weird, it’s unnerving, and most of all immensely uncomfortable hardly having the strength to move a muscle_ . _ Having no choice but to allow Yaz to shift her into place, move her when she needs to be moved. She gets it, she doesn’t have another choice, but she’s just conscious enough for the necessity to leave her feeling small. Incapable. Guilty, for forcing someone else to pick up the slack. It’s a default mindset, a struggle to see past, even when she knows — she _ knows — _her friends would much rather be stuck taking care of her than stuck on the sidelines. 

But this is _ her _ battle. _ Her _mistake. 

Her penance. 

She doesn’t deserve to be taken care of. 

And she really, _ really _wants to sleep. 

No, no, _ no. Stay awake, Doctor. Things to do. _

Does this even count as awake? It barely counts as alive.

_I’m dying, _the Doctor relents, to nobody but herself. Not ‘possibly’ dying, not even probably dying. Definitely dying. For a merciless instant of lucidity, she wonders, were her calculations off? Are they too late? — No, no, the trusty sonic has its moments, but it wouldn’t be so careless. 

This is just going to be a very slow, very long, very painful death. Serves her right. 

She has twenty hours to hang onto a dangling thread of the concept of life, but she’s been losing the battle for _ hours _ now. Bleeding out somewhere behind the front line while her friends take the reins. 

_ My fam. _Doing everything they can to keep her afloat. Her fam, keeping things moving while she’s a useless heap of flesh and bone slumped in a desk chair, held steady and still by a safe hand. 

Her family, helping finish what she started when she no longer can. 

_ Breathe. _

It’s not a simple task. 

She takes another step closer to the peak of consciousness, a stroke nearer to the surface of the water. Climbing, pushing, forcing herself back to reality, homing in on those wisps of voices, those echoes of reassurance; the light at the end of the tunnel. Her temporary from the dark.

She barely has enough fight left to even exist_ . _ She’s so tired, _ so tired… _But she’s needed. 

No sleeping. Not yet. 

_ “Alright, Doctor.” _ Words are now words instead of jumbles of incomprehensible sounds. That’s a good sign, isn’t it? _ “Thousands of years old yeah? You ready for the most undignified moment of them all?” _

That’s Ryan, that’s definitely Ryan. Lighthearted and mellow, trying to preserve her pride. It’s not even about _ pride _anymore, not about an image or a perception she’s trying to maintain, she just has no right to be assisted. 

And she tells herself again, what she tells herself every time. _ I can’t do this without them. _

Someone is merciful enough to help her back into her coat without even asking, and the familiar weight on her shoulders simultaneously takes a fraction off of them. The Doctor can vaguely make out the sensation of being moved forward, though she's physically stationary, slumped in her seat that Ryan rolls forward on squeaky wheels. If she weren’t so focused on breathing it would, in fact, be _ remarkably _undignifying, but for a moment she can consider to be oddly blissful, the pain is too overwhelming to stir up a protest. 

All that really matters is that she’s moving in the direction she needs to go, and she doesn’t have to worry about doing it herself. The fam’s got it covered. 

She hopes she remembers to thank them when she can speak out loud without her head feeling like it’s being ripped in half. The typically unnoticeable vibrations of speech in her throat leave her brain absolutely throbbing. 

When they come to a stop, her eyelids crack open just enough to make out hazy surroundings; distorted colors and figures that are fuzzy around the edges. 

Graham is helping Griffon and Branton lift the machine into the back of the bus, secure it in place and latch the rear doors shut. She can feel Ryan’s presence just over her shoulder, hands on the back of the chair, and in her periphery his fingers flex and tense and curl into a tighter grip. He’s the picture of anxiety, and she can feel it rolling off of him in waves, yet when he speaks his voice is steady, clear, and void of anything shy of confidence. 

“Maybe that wasn’t the worst bit, actually.” He says it like an apology, and she can’t help the tiniest of smiles at his thoughtfulness. 

It’s actually quite jarring when he picks her up, strong arms under her knees and shoulders_ . _Has she ever been small enough to be lifted this easily? 

She’s only in Ryan’s arms for a second, eyes pinched shut so she doesn’t have to watch, but it’s over as quick as it started. 

Her eyes flutter open again when she’s lowered to her feet, just inside the entrance to the bus, and oh, oh no, she’s gonna_ — _

But she doesn’t. Yaz’s readied arms are around her waist before she can hit the deck, and the Doctor slumps into her completely, out of breath, shuddering, and entirely reliant on Yaz’s steady guidance into the closest seat. 

Ryan and Graham climb into the bus and drop into a row of seats adjacent to hers, and they’re watching her _ very _closely right now. Confident composure, calm at face value, but she knows them well enough to catch that concealed tint of panic. Urgency. 

She must do something especially wobbly and betraying with her face, because they look away as soon as they realize they’ve been caught. 

Griffon’s at the wheel, eyes on the road, but Branton is twisted around giving her a very similar look, and he too disconnects it when he catches her staring back. 

Is _ he _worried too? She’s got enough of that as it is. The machine is complete, and they’re on their way to the TARDIS. Nevermind her, Branton should be overjoyed. 

The Doctor’s next inhale catches in her throat, and before she has the chance to panic Yaz is once again, quick as ever, holding the oxygen mask in place. 

_Thank you. _She doesn’t say it, but she thinks it, loud as she can. Her telepathy must be compromised, because while there’s no way for Yaz to have heard her, she seems to have understood perfectly. 

_ “We’re almost there. You’re alright.” _ Sound is phasing in and out again, not quite sticking the landing, but just intelligible enough. The Doctor breathes through the weight on her chest and focuses on the reassurances, actually pays attention to them this time, because she’s not so sure. _ “You’re alright.” _

Touch is a funny thing in this body, usually far from preferable. It’s alright, it’s tolerable, not completely world ending, but just uncomfortable enough for her to steer clear out of instinct. 

So she really must be dying, because when Yaz’s arm wraps around her shoulders and pulls her a little closer, holds her a little steadier, it’s not only comfortable, but _ comforting. _It’s been a long time since touch had that effect. 

It’s nice. She’s missed this, apparently. She doesn’t understand how it’s possible to feel so _ okay _around Yaz when she’s everything but. How she can itch with the need to resist when Graham and Ryan try to help, but with Yaz it’s… really not so bad. 

Yaz is special, she supposes. It takes someone special to break her defenses so effortlessly. She might not have had much of a choice today, but she’s felt safe with Yaz from the start. She’s her crutch of choice, if she has to have one. 

She lets her head fall onto Yaz’s shoulder, and accepts this ongoing moment of weakness as it is. 

The bus clumbers over a particularly jarring bump in the road and it alerts every nerve in the Doctor’s body, jostles every ache, and her brain bounces around in her skull like someone’s whacked it with a cricket bat. No, she’s been hit with a cricket bat before, this is infinitely worse. Yaz holds her head steady, slightly shaky fingertips gliding a gentle back and forth pattern through her hair, and _ hm, __that feels nice too. _

“Hang in there, Doc.” Oh, why is this face _ so bad _at hiding the way she feels. Come to think of it, why is every face this bad at hiding the way she feels? 

She parts her lips to reassure him, but nothing comes out.

Almost there. _ Almost there. _

* * *

Ryan watches the murky sky and rotten trees zip past the bus window as Griffon bears down on the accelerator. 

He knows how much she hates prying eyes, but Ryan can’t help but look over in alarm when he hears the Doctor struggling to breathe, _ again. _Yaz has it covered, like always, anticipating the Doctor’s needs before she’s even registered she needs anything. 

He’s never seen her like this. He’s seen her injured, he’s seen her at her emotional lows, but never so… raw. Ryan could never consider the Doctor broken, even at the worst of times, but this is the closest he’s ever seen her to anything of the sort. It’s a big, unsettling leap. 

Yaz whispers something to her that Ryan doesn’t even try to make out. The Doctor’s generally a little different when it comes to Yaz — a bit more open, a tad less defensive. He’s noticed it, and he’s let it slide, and it’s really coming in handy right now. As long as she’s letting _ someone _look after her. 

They hit another bump in the road and the Doctor sucks in a breath, Yaz holds her a little tighter, and Ryan goes back to looking out the window. It feels a bit like intruding on a private moment, like he’s invading the Doctor’s personal space just by witnessing her so incapacitated, even more so the sight of her being cared for so closely. It’s intimate, in a way, and he does what he can to let her suffer without a spotlight. 

And despite it all, he finds himself grinning a bit, watching the clouds drift by. Those two have definitely got _ some _sort of feelings towards each other that haven’t been acknowledged. 

Suppose that explains why Yaz has been truly worrying herself into the ground_ . _Ryan’s smile is whisked away. 

“Just up there.” Graham says, standing a bit to point to a path forked to the left, and he smiles when Griffon makes the turn. “Almost there, Doc. You still with us?” 

Her head is still bowed against Yaz’s shoulder, only moving with the force of the occasional bump and dip in the road. Yaz looks up, catches Ryan’s eye, and his heart breaks. She’s struggling to keep herself together. He tries to smile, but it’s strained and clearly forced. 

The TARDIS is still at the top of the hill, and Ryan wonders if the blue got a bit… _ bluer _ since he last saw it. It’s like there’s a spotlight coming down from the heavens, enhancing its vibrance and emphasizing its sense of safety. There might as well be a big _ Welcome Home _sign slapped on the front. It’s hardly been over a day since they were here last, but it feels like years. 

“Branton, help me get this thing out.” Griffon leaps from his seat, and Ryan instinctively moves towards the Doctor and Yaz. 

“Doctor.” Yaz taps her cheek, and the Doctor’s slight stirring is the only sign she can hear. “We’re here. Hold on a little longer.” 

She hums something low and understanding, but doesn’t muster up more on her own part than shifting her feet into a suitable position. 

Ryan takes the Doctor’s left side and pulls her arm over his shoulders, catching Yaz’s eye across her bowed head. “Ready?” 

Yaz only nods, securing her arm around the Doctor’s middle and on the count of three, they stand. 

Shuffling her out and off of the bus is a cruel task. There’s not enough space for Ryan to lift her safely without whacking her head and feet into things, so he and Yaz have to split her deadweight between them and haul her to the exit, the toes of her boots dragging along the floor. 

“I’ve got her.” Graham stands outside with one arm outstretched, crooking his fingers encouragingly. 

Ryan and Yaz share an uncertain look before shifting the Doctor’s weight forward. They keep hold of her arms until the last second, doing their best to ease her descent into Graham’s readied arms. 

The Doctor sags against him entirely, only responding with pale fingers weakly twisting themselves in Graham’s jacket for balance. He huffs under the impact, but keeps her steady enough just long enough for Ryan to hop down and scoop her back up. 

“Last time, bear with me here.” Her head drops limp against his chest, breathing ragged and shallow, and not a moment passes in between him depositing her on the ground, back against the TARDIS doors, and Yaz dropping to her knees to help her breathe. 

“Eyes open.” Yaz taps the Doctor’s cheek again, steadies her head when it threatens to droop to one side, and the Doctor just barely manages to squint. 

“We home?” Her sight isn’t focusing, that much is obvious from the way she repeatedly blinks and scrunches her forehead, and as soon as the words slip out she winces like they hurt. 

“Yeah, Doc, almost done.” Graham crouches in front of her, a kind smile on his face as Griffon and Branton wheel the machine into position behind him. “Gonna need your help with this last bit though. We can do it for you, just tell us what you need.” 

She stares somewhere over his shoulder mindlessly, blankly, and Ryan reaches out to give her shoulder a light shake. “Oi, no checking out just yet. What do we need to do?” 

Her wandering gaze shifts in his direction, and it takes a lot of willpower not to let panic settle deep in his stomach. _ Come on. _

“Key’s in m’ pocket.” She breathes, barely loud enough to be heard, and sluggishly pulls one coat lapel to the side. 

Yaz reaches into her inside pocket and procures the TARDIS key, passing it to Ryan who immediately shoves it into the lock. “Alright, now what?” 

Her eyes close again, face pinched tight and without lifting her hand, she points to the atmospheric converter that Griffon and Branton are securing into the earth. “Cables.” 

Ryan turns around. There’s a coil of thick cables coming from the base of the machine with a handy crank for reeling them back in. The atmospheric converter is tall, nearly reaching Ryan’s eye level. Fastened atop a sturdy base and a couple levels of unfamiliar mechanics is what looks like an upturned, open metal claw, and Ryan knows from observation that a flick of a switch sends crackles of purple currents into the heart that (he assumes) are intended to be directed skyward. He looks back to the Doctor, and nods. “Cables. Where does it plug in?” 

“Console.” 

Ryan sighs but does what he can with the tidbit of guidance. Griffon utters quick instruction to his colleague as they shove the securing stakes at the base of the machine deep into the ground. Ryan gives it a quick shake to confirm its stability before uncoiling the cable. 

When he reaches the TARDIS he only opens one of the doors, leaving the other to support the Doctor’s weight, and he tugs the cable into the console room. 

There’s a blip from the controls, like a greeting, or maybe a warning. Only the Doctor speaks beeps and blips. 

Ryan drops the end of the cable next to the controls and hurries back outside. Graham and Yaz are still talking to the Doctor, making her open her eyes, keeping her present for just a little longer. 

“_ Where _on the console?” He feels a bit guilty, hounding her like this when he knows she’s already well past her limits. “There’s, like, two dozen different ports that cable could fit in.” 

“Left of the… custard cream dispenser. But —” She tilts her head towards him, and each word sounds like an insurmountable effort. “You’ve got to program it.” 

His jaw goes slack, dumbfounded. “I don’t know how to do _ that! _”

The Doctor lets out a short, frustrated breath, and it’s probably gonna take every scrap of energy just to explain this to him. 

Luckily, she’s got another idea. “Yaz, grab the… the sonic.” 

And she does, reaching into the Doctor’s inner pocket again and pulling the device out. 

“Give it here.” The Doctor holds it loosely with both hands, twists it’s base twice, presses the button on top three times and the one on bottom once. “Ryan,” she starts, and he waits patiently as she catches her breath before continuing. “Plug in the cable… plug in the sonic to the right of the red lever. I’ve… pre-programmed it.” 

He doesn’t move yet, and the Doctor’s head drops towards her chest. Alarmed, Yaz grabs her wrist and ducks to catch her eyes, but the Doctor is still barely, _ somehow _conscious, somehow holding on. 

“Then pull that lever.” It’s straightforward, it’s simple for once, and Ryan quickly squeezes her shoulder in thanks before darting back inside. 

“Right. Cable here,” He picks it up with both hands and fastens it into the port next to the custard cream dispenser. “Sonic here,” He holds it up for inspection before plugging it in, and wonders how the Doctor manages to construct so many inputs and settings and softwares when it’s only got two buttons. 

Ryan takes a deep breath and flips the small red lever into position. 

“Anything happening?” He calls out, one hand hovering over the controls with uncertainty. 

“Ryan, come out here.” Graham urges, and Ryan bounds out the door to find the machine buzzing to life, fizzing like a shaken up soda, and the darkened center illuminates. 

“So far so good.” Griffon takes a step back and looks it up and down. 

“What’s it gonna do?” Branton keeps a safe distance, skeptical and uneasy. 

“Deactivate the bacteria in the air. When we flip that switch,” He points to a spot on the machine’s front. “The Doctor said it’ll look like a laser firing into the sky. And if the sky turns purple for a second, it worked.” 

“That simple?” 

“Believe me,” Griffon breathes, looking like he’s lost ten years off his life after the day he’s had. “This was not simple.” 

Branton nods shallowly, fairly unimpressed and probably trying not to get his hopes up too high. 

Everyone else’s, on the other hand, are sky-high and untouchable. 

There’s a pause, a quiet anticipation, and Ryan’s reminded of the seconds leading up to _ Stormzy’s _performance when he saw him in concert a couple years back. Vibrations of eagerness filling the stadium, readied eyes frozen on the stage. 

“Do it.” The Doctor slurs, leaning into Yaz’s steadying hand on her shoulder, eyes open just enough to not miss the show. 

Ryan holds his breath. This _ has _to work. 

Griffon shares a look with Branton, exhausted but hopeful, worn but _ eager _to see the result of his work. Branton himself, still looks the same. 

Griffon jumps forward to flip the switch, then jumps back out of the way. 

It’s like there’s a bumblebee stuck in Ryan’s ear, the way the machine hums a building frequency. The crackling intensifies, the purple heart builds and brightens. Ryan puts his hand over his ears, instinctively taking a step back. 

It gets worse, and worse, and even worse than that, until Ryan is wincing and ducking his head as the sound assaults his ears. There’s a thundering _ pop _that forces him to look up, just in time to see the currents fizzle and falter and the machine go dark once again. 

Ryan lets out a long breath, lowering his hands from his ears. 

There’s no purple sky. 

“What happened?!” Yaz is still recovering from the auditory attack, one hand pressed into the side of her head while Graham works himself to his feet. 

“Did it… did it not work?” Graham only tolerates the silence for a beat. “Griff.” 

Griffon is slack jawed, staring at the machine like it’s just murdered a loved one. Commited a personal offense. 

“Well?” Branton is no longer robotically stoic, and his voice crackles with fear he can’t help. 

“No.” Griffon takes a step back, voice hitching. “It didn’t.” 

Ryan feels something in him crumble, then fall apart entirely at the mortification on their faces. They look exactly how you’d expect someone to look who’s just had their final hope of salvation reduced to wisps of smoke and sparking wires. 

It didn’t work. Mantrovon 7’s final option no longer exists. 

He tries to come up with the right words, a fitting apology, but what do you say to someone who’s entire planet, entire population — are _ doomed? _

“Help me up.” 

The Doctor’s muffled request catches everyone off guard. 

“What?” Yaz balks, wide eyed, stunned to stillness. 

Every visible muscle and tendon in the Doctor’s face and neck is taut, teeth gritted as she tries to work some function back into her legs, shifting them along the earth as she strains to lift her head as high as possible. “We have to go back… we have to fix it.” 

Ryan just blinks in awe, and the Mantrovonians just stare at the Doctor like she’s the biggest enigma in the universe. 

Graham crouches in front of the Doctor, jaw set in his seriousness. “Doc, we’ve been supportive of you _ way _ past our comfort levels already, and you want us to _ take you back? _” 

Her eyes haven’t left the machine, and Ryan doesn’t know if he’s ever seen her so… _ stupidly _determined. 

“I have to… I —” She flickers back and forth between Griffon and Branton then, taking their shattering disappointment to heart, unable to look away. They’re watching the interaction emptily like they already know the outcome. “I have to fix it.” 

Yaz trips over her tongue, grabbing the Doctor’s hand and spluttering protests. “No way. _ No way, _ you’ve done absolutely everything you can. Doctor if you stay here much longer it _ will _kill you.” 

She’s unphased entirely. Expression wobbly but intense as she inhales sharply through her nose, forces the air back out over and over. She presses her palms into the ground, arms trembling like she expects to be able to stand on her own. 

“Doctor, you can’t be serious.” Ryan swallows around a lump in his throat. It feels horrifically disrespectful having this conversation in front of Griffon and Branton, but they’ve got to smack some sense into her before she _ kills herself. _

“I won’t run away again.” Her arms give up and she slackens, no longer breathing heavy to steady herself but wheezing with the consequence. “I can’t… I _ can’t _run away again.” Her gaze flicks expectantly over Ryan and Graham’s unwavering stoicy. 

“Doctor, this isn’t running away.” Ryan hardens, but she doesn’t seem to hear him. 

Yaz’s eyes are brimming with tears, face crumpling as the extent of the Doctor’s request sinks in. 

“Help me up.” Eyes closed again as she rides out the painful result of her straining, but her head is tilted in Yaz’s direction. A softness to her voice, something beyond a mere plea; a need, a _ desperation. _

But she isn’t strong enough to be in any way productive, and she will absolutely die trying. 

Yaz lifts teary eyes to Graham, then Ryan, and he reads in her eyes what he feels embedded in his instincts. 

There’s often a time to respect the Doctor’s decisions without argument, accept her wishes at face value, and help however they can. 

This is the first time they’ve had to say _ sod it all, _for the sake of saving her life. 

In that split second glance, there’s an abundance of mutual understanding, and a decision without second thought. 

“I’m sorry, Doctor.” Yaz averts her eyes shamefully, sniffing as she opens the TARDIS door at the Doctor’s back. 

“What — ” She nearly collapses backwards without the support but Yaz and Graham are already behind her, arms hooked beneath hers and dragging her inside. “No, no, _ don’t. _” 

Yaz and Graham look about as haunted as Ryan feels at the broken sound, and when their efforts falter at her pleas and protests Ryan hustles forward to join the team. 

“Fam, _ please. _” The Doctor’s face is screwed up in agony, eyes clamped shut, and each attempt at a weak tug from their hold is barely even there. 

“We’re really, really sorry, Doctor.” Ryan feels himself choke and swallows the lump down with difficulty. “Really sorry.” 

“_ Fam… _” It’s the lifeless, hollow betrayal in the single word, not the way she struggles to fight against them or her struggle to heave for air that finally makes Ryan’s eyes sting. 

As a group, they ease her into her back in the console room and Ryan can tell she’s officially used up the last of her energy, consciousness barely even a concept, yet still she squirms and breathes out hollow appeals. 

The Mantrovonians haven’t budged when Ryan walks back to the open doors. Griffon is leaning with both hands braced against the machine, staring at it like he’s trying to figure out where he went wrong, brow furrowed like he’s angry with it, himself, or the Doctor, or all of the above. 

Branton looks empty. Void of whatever hope he had left, a dull gaze staring at his boots as he slowly, right before Ryan’s eyes, accepts his fate. 

“We’re sorry. Really.” It’s not the right thing to say, probably, but perhaps nothing is. As much as Ryan feels for his hosts, he has far more pressing matters weighing on his shoulders. “We’ll… come back, if we can. When she’s better.” 

Griffon and Branton don’t even bother entertaining the notion, but they meet his eyes. 

“Thank her for me.” Griffon says sincerely, voice raw and pitched low. “She did everything she could.” 

Ryan holds his gaze steadily, relieved on the Doctor’s behalf that after everything she went through for them, she at least isn’t hated. 

He then glances to Branton, curious and unexpectant, but Ryan earns a quick, thankful nod from him as well. 

“Good luck.” He tries to smile, but finds it impossible, and quickly closes the doors in hopes he never has to see such solemn faces again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DON’T @ ME (but comments are always appreciated <3)


	11. Safe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m like PUSHING this one out today because i’ve had it written but haven’t been satisfied with it, but i could keep editing and changing little tidbits until the end of 2020, so, tadaaaa

Ryan leans against the TARDIS doors as soon as they’re closed with a tight grip on the handle and a renewed weight on his shoulders. 

His plan is to take a single moment, a steadying breath or two before facing the new road ahead, but he doesn’t have an opportunity to register the first step before the console room is blaring alerts and bathing its inhabitants in flashes of red. 

“What’s that?” Ryan whips around, gaze settling on a section of the console a deeper shade than the rest and the adjoined monitor that flickers to life. 

“Never a dull moment with this one.” Graham clumbers from the Doctor’s side to his feet, jogging haphazardly to the emphasized area. “Er… is that?” 

“What’s it say?” Yaz’s weariness is evergrowing. Shadows of greyed distress beneath her eyes and a lowness to her voice that reminds Ryan she hasn’t slept in a couple days, but she’s still unwavering from her position, unwilling to leave the Doctor’s side. 

If the Doctor’s in any way aware of the TARDIS’s distress, it’s difficult to tell. She’s on the cusp of unconsciousness, a small part of her still fighting back as if she can save the world just by opening her eyes. She doesn’t though, eyelids flutter but remain closed, and she mutters incomprehensible strings of distress that even Yaz doesn’t manage to calm. 

“Well it’s... her. Like it did a body scan when we came in.” Graham says with an uncertain tilt of his head. The beeps and blips suffocating the room build in frequency, a sense of urgency settling thick in the air. “Can’t read the circle things but that’s her… cardiovascular system I suppose? Doesn’t look good, check her pulse, Yaz.”

Even the TARDIS itself seems to hold its breath in anticipation as Yaz rises to her knees to hunch over the Doctor, fingers pressed into her neck and frown of concentration on her face. 

“They’re both workin’ at least, just…  _ really  _ fast.” 

“That’s called something.” Ryan kneads at the tension in the back of his neck and crouches down next to Yaz. “Nan told me once.” 

“It’s — whatsit,” Graham snaps his fingers repeatedly, scanning the air for the term. “Tachysomething.  _ Tachycardic.”  _ His obvious sense of victory is short lived. “Won’t lie, though, haven’t a clue what to do about it.” 

“We can’t do anything but get her off this planet. The TARDIS is seeped in that radiation, remember?” Yaz sinks onto her heels, shoulders sagging, and Ryan rubs her back. “She’s no safer in here than she was out there.” 

“But we can’t fly the TARDIS.” 

They don’t stress about that for long. The TARDIS engines begin to wheeze, the central crystal rises and falls, but it all sounds and feels a bit more aggressive than their usual takeoff. 

Graham clings to the console while Ryan and Yaz grab fistfuls of the Doctor’s coat, keeping her in one place as the deck violently rocks. 

“The TARDIS seem a bit angry to anyone else?” Graham grunts, holding tight to the console edge for dear life when he’s nearly knocked off his feet. 

“Can you blame her?” Ryan raises his voice over the ear splitting grit of the engines. 

“Most ships aren’t meant to fly without a pilot.” Graham rationalizes, voice strained in his efforts to remain upright, but Ryan’s getting a  _ vibe  _ from the console room. The even rougher landing strikes him as more of a temper tantrum than a mechanical fault. 

When the shuddering and jolting finally settles Yaz doesn’t move her hands from the Doctor’s shoulders, breathing heavily and staring down at closed eyes. Her mumbling has gone quiet. 

“She unconscious?” Graham pipes, taking an uneasy step in their direction. 

“Yeah.” Yaz is hovering over her face. “Just unconscious.” 

“Thank heavens for that.” Graham puffs out a breath as he moves towards the doors. The outside light against the dulled window is brighter than it was. “She’s gonna have a bone to pick with us when she wakes up.” 

He knows, and Yaz knows as well, from the way the ghost of their decision still clings to her like an extra skin, weighing her down, and while she seems caught in some pull between guilt and that lingering frustration, there’s not a hint of regret on her features. 

Ryan lifts his head. “Where are we?” 

Graham swings one door open, Sheffield wind swarms the console room and easy rays of sunrise filter and flicker over existing shadows, and he smiles. “Home. Just where we need to be.”

“Suppose the TARDIS is a bit smarter than we give her credit for.” Ryan finds that floating wisp of almost-relief and snatches it out of thin air, holds it tight, and lets it grow. He looks to Yaz then, her slumped shoulders and bowed head, her current inability to push the worst case scenario away from the front of her mind, and he takes her hand to lend her a bit of his optimism. “She’ll be able to recover once she’s safe away from that radiation stuff.” He reminds her, smiling when Yaz’s head lifts a fraction. “She’ll be alright, Yaz.” 

She sniffs and doesn’t move for a beat, “Yeah.” then slowly uncurls her body from its mournful position. “She will be.” 

“She’s got no choice.” Ryan adds with a teasing lilt, patting Yaz on the shoulder before standing and extending a hand to help her up. 

“Care to do the honors, Ryan?” Graham flattens his lips warily with a nod to the floor, and Ryan sighs. 

“You two should do some lifting so you can have a turn.” He crouches back down to slip his arms securely under their friend and actually manages to pull a tired laugh out of Yaz. 

“You’re the muscle of the team, you know that.” She jabs, following him and Graham outside. 

“Oi, I’m good for much more than that.” The Doctor feels a lot heavier in his arms than she did earlier in the day. She hangs limp and lifeless, head dangling over his arm. It’s a bit of a further walk to his front door than it was to and from the bus, and he nearly loses his balance a couple times without available hands to steady himself.

“Sure you are, son.” Graham earns a challenging glance from his grandson, but his eyes sparkle with that familiar  _ I’m only teasing.  _ “Look, the Doc’s the brains, you’re the muscle, and Yaz is the common sense.” 

“Thank you very much, Graham.” Yaz opens the door to their flat for them, a proud smirk nearly reaching her eyes. 

“Well what about you then?” Ryan sidesteps inside, mindful of obstacles. “What’s your purpose?” 

“I’m the comic relief. Obviously. If it weren’t for me you three would waste half your lives away moping. Lucky for you, I’m hilarious.” 

“Right. We owe it all to you, Graham.” Ryan takes the first step into the front room and dithers, the weight in his arms once again prominent and noticeable. “Should I take her upstairs?” 

“Dunno… but she’s mentioned at least a dozen times how much she likes your sofa.” Yaz muses, and Ryan nods. 

“Sofa it is, then.” 

They work as a team to get her settled and comfortable. Shoes off, pillow beneath her head, Graham’s favorite blanket draped over the back of the sofa in case she needs it. They work like a hive-mind, splitting off occasionally and taking the individual liberty to make sure she has everything she needs. It would be far more useful to keep her in the TARDIS, with its fully stocked medical bay and mother-like ability to anticipate her pilot’s needs, but they work with what they have. 

The Doctor’s so quiet now that it‘s a bit blindsiding. On Mantrovon she at least managed to provide subtle implications as to how she felt, even if they were unintentional. A grunt or a moan if she was in an excessive amount of pain, that sickening wheeze or choke when she couldn’t breathe. 

There’s no hints, no warning signs to go off of now, only the hardly perceptible rise and fall of her chest. Ryan hopes that’s a good sign. 

Yaz takes no chances though, covers all her bases like always, resettles the oxygen mask over the Doctor’s mouth and nose and pauses to make sure it stays. Those things really should have a strap or something, though its shape seems like it would fit a Mantrovanian’s thin face securely. Another reason the TARDIS’s supplies would be handy right now. 

“Should we take her coat off?” Yaz’s fingertips graze her forehead thoughtfully, pausing for an instant then sliding those fingers through her hair. Probably more of a comforting gesture for Yaz herself than the Doctor. “She’s still really hot.” 

“Thought I’d just get some ice, actually. Maybe crank the air conditioning up a bit.” Graham muses. “I’d hate to dethrone her again if we don’t have to. She loves that coat.” 

“She’s not even awake.” Ryan combats. 

“Yeah, but — you know.” Graham rubs the back of his head guiltily. “We just dragged her off an alien planet while she begged us not to but couldn’t do a thing to fight back. Crossed some boundaries today, y’know?” He winces. “Least we can do is let her keep her coat on. Think she’s more comfortable with it.” 

And that’s the point right now, isn’t it? Keep her as comfortable and hope for the best. It’s a bit sad, when Ryan thinks about it, but he and Yaz nod their assent. 

“Ice.” Yaz stands from the edge of the sofa. 

“Oh, no you don’t.” Graham grabs her wrist gently before she can make a move for the kitchen. “You’re havin’ a kip.” 

“No way.” She looks fearful for a painful instant, pointedly glancing at the sofa’s occupant. “I want to keep an eye on her.” 

“Me and Ryan can do that. You’ve been taking the brunt of this nonsense since it started and you look about ready to keel over.” 

“I do not!” 

“Little bit, actually.” Ryan slips in with a cringe. “Look, my bed’s super comfy. Sofa doesn’t even compare, no matter what the Doctor says.” He holds her eye and it feels like a standoff, a battle of the wills. Yaz doesn’t even blink. 

“Please?” Ryan softens his tone. “Starting to get a little worried about you.” 

Those end up being the right words, thankfully. Yaz’s expression shifts from defensive to a quiet timidity, and her voice is much lower when she speaks. “Sorry, yeah. I’ll go lie down for a bit.” 

“S’alright, we know how much you care about her.” Graham’s smile is warm but knowing, almost a tease. “But I don’t need to be fussing over the both of you.” 

Yaz slides right past the subtle implication. “You’ll come get me if she wakes up? Or if, I dunno, anything — ?” 

“Got you covered, Yaz.” Ryan assures. “And Graham and I will be with her the whole time.” 

She lets out a slow breath, arms folded loosely, and nods. “Alright.” 

Yaz disappears up the stairs a few moments later, and Graham immediately looks to Ryan with a quirked brow and a smirk. 

“Don’t.” He points at him forcefully. “Don’t say nothin’. I think we figured it out before they did.” 

“Oh, I don’t doubt you there.” 

* * *

“Yaz, wake up.”

Ryan’s bed is the type of comfy that would’ve made Yaz late for school every morning. And just like the alarms that would blare away next to her ear and work their way into her dreams, Graham’s voice only barely scratches the surface of her subconscious. 

She shifts a bit, burying her face in one of many pillows as her brain tunes out the sound, works around it, and it eventually takes a hand shaking her shoulder for the voice to sift through properly. 

“Yaz, come on, love. Time to wake up.” 

With a sharp inhale Yaz lifts her head, rolls over to prop herself up on her elbows as her eyes adjust to the dimly lit bedroom, and there’s Graham — perched on the edge of the bed, giving her an apologetic smile. Only then does she remember why she’s in Ryan’s bed and not her own. 

“Is she awake?” Yaz sits up the rest of the way, squinting through in that foggy in-between point as her body pleads for her to go back to sleep. 

“Not exactly.” Graham stands to give her some space to wake up. “She’s been in a bad way for about an hour — she’s okay!” He adds quickly, lifting a hand as Yaz’s brow collapses with dread. “She’s got a bit more energy, so she’s okay, but… she asked for you, I think. Said your name at least.” 

Yaz is already rolling out of bed, limbs heavy and protesting every movement but as soon as her bare feet hit the carpet, she’s moving towards the door. There’s only starlight coming through a single window, the sun long since departed, and Yaz looks to Graham in alarm. “How long was I asleep?” 

“About seven hours I think? Haven’t really been watching the clock.” Graham admits, taking the lead towards and down the stairs. “She’s been out like a light up until a little while ago.” 

“So she is awake?” Yaz clarifies, but she sees for herself before Graham can respond. 

“She’s completely out of it.” Ryan’s sitting on the edge of the sofa, hands on the Doctor’s shoulders as she squirms and strains like she’s trying to get away, but her eyes are pinched shut. “Has been for a bit.” 

“Rolled right off the sofa earlier.” Graham starts collecting bags of melted ice from the sofa and the floor. “Which I’ve gotta say, has to be a good sign.” 

Ryan moves out of the way when Yaz moves forward, and as soon as his hands leave the Doctor’s shoulders she’s grunting with the effort of rolling to one side. 

“Oi, no, stay put.” Yaz drops to a crouch and pulls the curtain of sweaty strands away from the Doctor’s face, a hand on her arm to keep her steady. The oxygen mask has long since been discarded, and while her breaths are heavy and a bit distressed they sound completely unhindered. Yaz could float with relief. “Hey, can you hear me?” 

More mumbling, more words that don’t sound like words as her head twists from one side to another and her legs shift beneath the weight of a blanket. 

“Is she hurting?” Muscles are tense beneath her hands and the lines at the Doctor’s brow are deep, prominent. 

“Looks like it.” Graham says quietly. 

“Which really isn’t fair,” Ryan hardens. “Considering the day she’s had.” 

“If being coated in that radiation hurts, probably shouldn’t be surprised that getting rid of it hurts too.” 

He’s right, but Yaz’s frown doesn’t ease. She slips her hand into the Doctor’s and squeezes, tight and firm, wishing she could just pluck her right out of hell. 

“Might not look it, but she’s getting better, Yaz.” Graham sits on the arm of the sofa next to the Doctor’s head, looking down with a sad smile. “Fever’s going down and it doesn’t seem like she’s having such a hard time breathing. She’s definitely getting better.” 

Yaz’s nod is slight, her grip on the Doctor’s hand shifting a tad so her fingertips rest over her pulse — still a bit frantic, but steadier and stronger. 

It still puts an impossible weight on her chest seeing the Doctor anything but perfectly okay. 

“I’m gonna stay with her a while.” Yaz says quietly, tracing her fingers along the Doctor’s skin. “And you two could probably use a break.” 

“Wouldn’t mind a kip.” Graham admits, rubbing his temple. 

Ryan nods his agreement. “You get enough sleep, Yaz?” 

“Just about.” She pillows her head on her hand, leaning over the Doctor and watching her closely. “Good for now.” 

Both the men look like they might press her a bit more, but appear satisfied enough. “Help yourself to the kitchen, bit low on snacks but I always keep a box of custard creams, for you know who.” Graham nods to the sofa, and Yaz smiles. 

“Thanks, Graham.” 

“You know the drill, wake us up if she does.” 

“Absolutely.” 

As soon as they’ve departed, Yaz’s eyes soften, and her tender gaze falls back to the woman of the hour. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll save you some custard creams.” She promises to closed eyes, squeezing the Doctor’s hand again when her squirming doesn’t stop. 

“Not that you’d do the same for me. You’re the most selfless person I’ve ever known, but when it comes to biscuits?” She huffs. “You make  _ sure  _ you get your fill before anyone else.” 

Yaz traces her thumb over the top of her hand as the Doctor mumbles away. 

“Hope you realize after this is all over just… just how much you’re cared for. Because I don’t think you know. Not really.” Her voice drops to a whisper, and lightens by a fraction. “We wouldn’t put up with all this for just, anyone, for a start.” 

Yaz will put up with anything for her, though. 

“Really thought we were losing you for a bit, there.” It’s getting harder to talk to no audience, but she presses on, easing back to sit on her heels. There’s both a bit of hope and a bit of dread that the Doctor’s just conscious enough to hear her. “And I can’t — handle that right now. You’ve done…  _ so _ much for me. Without even realizing it, and I was starting to think I’d lost the chance to tell you that.” 

The Doctor’s face twists a bit, and Yaz settles a hand in her hair. 

“I’m better, thanks to you, in a way that I’m not even sure you could understand.” Yaz smiles a bit, sifting careful fingers through her hair. “And you never stop helping. No matter what you think, no matter how deep of a guilt hole you dig for yourself, you make things  _ better.  _ Wherever you go. A proper Doctor.” 

There’s a warning hitch of breath before the Doctor’s eyes are cracking open, glazed and confused and brimming with pain. Yaz’s hand stills. 

“Yaz?” It’s so quiet, such an effort in and of itself, but the sound is an immeasurable blessing. 

“Yeah, I’m here.” She assures immediately, moving over a bit to make sure she’s in the Doctor’s line of sight. “Be careful, try not to move so much.” 

Her gaze doesn’t settle anywhere, never focusing, and it’s clear she’s unable to string events together from the way her expression contorts into the beginnings panic. 

“You’re safe. We’re at Graham and Ryan’s.” Yaz slides a steadying hand to her cheek, softening her voice. “And you probably shouldn’t be awake yet.” 

The Doctor’s eyes are so pained, distant and fragile, and it’s a cruel reminder of the torment she put herself through for the sake of a world she couldn’t save. Yaz isn’t looking forward to that conversation. 

“Try and go back to sleep, I’ll fill you in later.” It sounds like a plea when she says it, and it is, she supposes. She’s looked into those hazel eyes laced with agony a haunting number of times. 

Her eyes screw up again, one arm worming around her middle like she’s trying to hold herself together. 

“Go back to sleep. Please.” Yaz trails her thumb along her cheekbone until taut muscles slacken and wrinkles at her forehead lighten. She still doesn’t look happy, but being awake is surely a lot worse. 

Yaz breathes out slow and watches her sleep, itching to see her back to her old self, but dreading the consequence. 

They’re gonna get quite the earful next time she wakes up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m not much of a thasmin writer but apparently i can’t write a multichap without using what those two have dealt with to bring them closer together. they’re gay, what do you expect me to do 
> 
> thanks for reading!! I think there’s just gonna be two chapters to go


	12. Almost Anger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hands down my favorite chapter so far. Lots of confrontation and puppy dog eyes
> 
> There’s a slight chance there will end up being 14 chapters if I can’t fit the whole conclusion into the 13th, but either way, we’re almost at the end!! Thanks for sticking with me

The Doctor’s dead to the world for three and a half days. 

Following her little fit was a bottomless slumber that tugged her deeper into its clutches every hour. It was a bit frightening initially; hardly a rise and fall of her chest and a pulse so imperceptible it took a few tries to find it, but Graham successfully convinced himself that it was simply her body’s way of recuperating. Judging by Yaz’s increased reluctance to leave the Doctor’s side and therefore reluctance to  _ rest,  _ he didn’t quite manage to expand that comfort beyond himself. 

She’s stable, they think. She’s on the mend, almost definitely. It’s touch and go, their confidence, because it’s not like she’s ever given them a rundown on her physiology. Instincts say to treat her how you would a human, but by now a human would have probably either woken up, or died. Now, all they can do is keep up their routine and never leave her alone. It’s an unkind waiting game. 

The humans’ uneven sleep schedules finally manage to coincide and the past few hours have been spent in an easy quiet. Graham in his recliner with a novel he’s already read, Yaz on the floor with her back against the sofa, pretending to pay attention to an advert on the telly, and Ryan — 

“Ryan! Stop that!” 

Mischievous fingers tighten around a paper cup when he realizes he’s caught, and Graham gapes at the image of at least  _ eight of them  _ stacked on the Doctor’s forehead. 

“What? She hasn’t moved a muscle in hours — I’m almost at ten.” Tip of his tongue poking between his lips, Ryan focuses on the steadiness of his hand. The Doctor snoozes away, blissfully unaware. 

“Yaz, you’re allowing this?” 

“What, are you saying the Doctor wouldn’t do the exact same thing to us?” Yaz tilts her head back to see Ryan’s progress, and a distraction’s a distraction, Graham supposes. 

“It’s not like it’s bothering her. And I’m a bit bored.” Ryan admits, cheering to himself when he places the ninth cup with success. 

Graham shakes his head, but finds the curiosity just present enough to keep his eyes on Ryan’s hand as he goes for the tenth. “She’ll have your head if she wakes up to that.” 

“Nah, she’ll never know.” He bites his lip and squints with an intense concentration, hand wobbling a bit but successfully slotting the final cup into place. “Get in!”

For the first time in ages, the Doctor moves a muscle. 

It’s slight, just a twitch of the fingers, but Ryan and Graham notice it immediately. Ryan sneakily scoops the stack off the Doctor’s forehead before it can tumble and tosses it under the coffee table. By the time Yaz twists around to see what the fuss is about, the Doctor’s eyes are open. 

The humans exchange a quick, questioning glance of unspoken uncertainty and shared anxieties — they never really discussed how they’d go about this. 

Her brow scrunches deep and she blinks a few times, adjusting to the low light in the front room that Graham kept considerately dim for the very reason. There’s a faint circle indent on her forehead from Ryan’s efforts to pass the time, and she rubs it away with oblivious fingers. 

“Doctor?” Yaz rises to her knees, hopeful and beseeching. 

She sucks in a deep breath through her nose and lifts herself onto elbows and loose fists, a shield of messy hair hiding half her face when she turns her head. 

“Hey, fam.” She winces as her head works to unclog, groggy and dazed, and Graham doesn’t find any of the expected panic on her features, no instinctive concerns upon awakening — only a soft confusion. 

“Hey yourself,” Ryan smiles weakly as he moves to sit on the edge of the coffee table. “Good nap?” 

“Mm, feel like I’ve been run over by four mopeds, twice…” She grunts a bit as she sits up the rest of the way and shuffles her legs over the edge of the sofa, dropping her feet to the floor with a soft thud. “And then a few.” 

“Yeah, you would.” Graham chuckles tensely, then finds himself holding his breath. 

The Doctor rubs both eyes with the heels of her palms, and when the subsequent blurriness sharpens around three faces frozen in uncertainty, her brows drop. “Anyone gonna tell me what I missed?” 

Yaz opens her mouth but whatever she planned to say gets stuck on the way out. Ryan kicks his paper cup stack a little further under the table. 

Graham snaps the silence. “What’s the last thing you remember, Doc?” 

She squints one eye, searching the air for her most recent memories. “Hedgewick’s World. Pre-Cyber invasion, of course — no. Kalisteno? Stick insect planet? Sorry about that one by the way — no... ” Creeping realization steals a breath, her face goes slack, and the tease of brightness in her eyes flickers out like a bulb shattering in slow motion. “Oh.” 

Yaz backs up a bit and joins Ryan on the coffee table, biting her lip as the three of them watch the Doctor replay recent events, frozen in place, like there’s a film at the forefront of her eyes. It takes her a minute to catch up, and that terribly haunted expression flattens briefly in confusion. She lifts her head in question, dread-filled gaze flicking back and forth between each of her friends, and she seems to find her answer on their faces. 

“It didn’t work, did it?” 

Graham’s heart breaks for approximately the fifth time that week. His lips flatten into an empathetic attempt at a smile but still feels like a frown. “No, love, it didn’t.” 

Her head lowers a fraction, shoulders falling with it, and Graham imagines the weight of the world sitting on top of them. Pushing her towards the earth, rubbing her face in the dirt, all at her own hand. Not in the broader picture though, not by the hand she blames for pulling the lever that sent her away from Mantrovon instead of  _ to  _ all that time ago. Graham couldn’t truly blame anyone for that under the deadly circumstances, but especially the Doctor, who licks things she shouldn’t and runs at the front of the line directly into gunfire. It’s an odd comfort to know she wasn’t always so bloody reckless. 

But that blame she places on herself is what nearly won in the end. If it weren’t for himself and the kids, she’d have died on Mantrovon 7 that day or the next, all because of this obligation she thinks she has to be  _ everyone’s _ doctor. Regardless of obstacles, regardless of consequence. It’s incredible, it’s damn near impressive _ —  _ and it’s impossible. Sometimes, she just doesn’t know how to lose. 

She puts the weight of the world on her shoulders with her own two hands, Graham thinks. And if the hand belonged to someone else, then may they rot in hell. 

The Doctor’s expression stills in faint confusion once again, and she gives the room she’s in a proper once over before looking to Ryan. “Hold on, why am I at yours?” To Graham then, eyes skeptical, mildly challenging, and he’s just waiting for the ball to drop. The final piece to latch into place. “What happened after we tried the machine?” 

She’s five-and-a-half feet tall and eats ice cream with two hands like an overeager child. Why does it suddenly feel like they’re talking to the sun? 

Yaz audibly swallows, nervous when she speaks. “You were getting a lot worse.” 

“You were too sick to work anymore—”

“—I was  _ not,  _ I...”

“You were, actually.” Graham squeezes his knees. “Couldn’t lift a bleedin’ finger, by that point. But you, well… you kept trying, Doc.” 

She squares her shoulders a bit, sitting a little higher. The lamplight casts a dull spotlight on the fatigue burdening one side of her face while something hides in the shadow of the other. Graham catches a glimpse of it when her eyes spark. “Well of course I did. We’ve been over this already.” 

“Doctor you wanted to go all the way  _ back  _ to the lab and start all over again, and by that point you were down for the count already.” Ryan says with a tinge of exasperation. “And you knew that. And you were still going.” 

“So you dragged me back.” She concludes, rounding on Graham, and the anger is definitely  _ there,  _ just… restrained. She’s rationalizing, trying to quell whatever betrayal/disappointment/rage she’s currently feeling, and it doesn’t look like she’s succeeding. “You don’t know my limits. You don’t get to drag me anywhere.”

“You hit your limit long before we brought you home.” Yaz interjects, and the Doctor looks a bit different when she meets her eye. Hurt, rather than angry, eyes rounded and softened at the edges, but it’s gone in a blink. “We really, really tried, Doctor, but you would’ve _died._”

“You don’t always get a say in how we do things.” Is her life just a pawn on the board? “You know that.” 

Ryan splutters. “We weren’t just gonna watch you die!” 

“You had  _ no  _ right to make that decision for me.” 

“We know.” Graham makes sure to hold her eye firm and steady when he earns it, and it burns, it pierces straight through his chest and leaves multiple stab wounds in his wake. He’s never seen her look at anyone quite like this, and it hurts to be the first on the receiving end. But he’s feeling it now; that nagging bit of almost-anger Yaz was talking about, the awe and the frustration, because Graham knows too well that the Doctor’s just playing dumb. She  _ knows  _ how valuable she is to the universe; to her  _ family,  _ yet she never acts accordingly. “We did it anyways.” 

The muscles in her neck are taut, and Graham watches them twitch and strain and the tension spread to the rest of her body like a cancer. It reaches her fists and she curls them, knuckles pressing into her knees and eyes cast downward as she bows in on herself a bit. 

She takes a couple deep breaths and Graham imagines that she’s trying to compose herself; trying not to bite. “I have to go back.” She lifts her gaze to Yaz’s then, fierce and unwavering like she’s the one the Doctor’s most adamant on convincing. “You understand that don’t you?” 

“A little bit.” Yaz says with a note of disappointment and restless hands that twist in her lap. “And I know we can’t stop you… but shouldn’t you wait a while, at least? You’ve only just come ‘round—”

“Don’t tell me what I should do.” 

“You don’t seem too worried about those navigation systems now, do you?” Graham challenges, but the Doctor doesn’t buck up again. 

“I’m always worried about the navigation systems.” She mumbles under her breath, hardly audible and tinged with her usual instincts to deflect and disregard. Graham does his best to ignore the way she’s suddenly unable to look any of them in the eye, drawing her coat tighter around herself like a barrier, like she no longer feels entirely safe in their company. The loss of her unhindered trust is a punch to the gut, but Graham’s faint feelings of indignance are resilient, and slowly beginning to overpower everything else. 

She presses her palms into her knees and braces to stand, and Yaz instinctively lurches to help. 

“I’ve  _ got it,  _ Yaz.” Her words have a hurtful bite, and she yanks her arm out of Yaz’s caring hold without missing a beat. Yaz deflates, dropping back onto her seat with a disheartened thud. 

The Doctor’s frown is firmly set, etched into every line and crease of her face, and it’s off-putting enough for them to let her stand on her own without protest. 

She staggers expectedly, listless and exhausted and wobbly after days without use of her legs. Her movements steady after a couple steps, and they watch her in stunned silence as she stumbles into the kitchen. 

Yaz lets out a slow breath, and Ryan drops his head for a beat before lifting it again with weak optimism plastered over his face. “She’ll come ‘round.” 

Graham gapes at the now unoccupied sofa, then the doorway to the kitchen, mind reeling and spiraling and reddening his ears. He forcefully pushes down the foot of the recliner and stands, jaw set; a man on a mission. “She sure as hell will.” 

He doesn’t quite storm into the kitchen, but there’s nothing cautious or considerate in his intentions when he approaches her — leaning against the counter a bit, working through her limited energy with a bowed head. 

“Doc.” 

His sternness isn’t enough to turn her around, but she acknowledges his presence by tensing her shoulders. 

“I wanna know what exactly you expected us to do back there.” 

Her fingertips dig into the edge of the countertop, and Graham feels frustration coiling tighter in his gut. 

“Seriously. Tell me what you thought was gonna happen.” He demands to her back, daring another step. “You would’ve died trying to fix that thing and we were supposed to what? Sit back and watch? Carry you from point A to point B since you couldn’t do it yourself?” 

“I never asked you to help me.” 

“That’s not the bloody point! You don’t have to ask, because we’re your friends, and if there’s something we can do to help we’re gonna do it. But the thing is, having friends means that you’ve got someone who cares about you, and we care too much to willingly carry you to your grave.” 

She doesn’t have an immediate comeback for that, and Graham feels an odd sort of satisfaction layering beneath his anger. 

“I know we’re not the first people you’ve traveled with, and given you’ve been around for some time I reckon the list is quite long. So, would your other friends have just let you die? Were they alright with sitting on the sidelines while you dug yourself the six foot hole?” 

She whirls on him then, something pained and unspoken in subtly red rimmed eyes, but he barrels straight through it before she can buck up. 

“How many times have you died so that someone else could live?” He questions, and she narrows her eyes at him, hardening and rechanneling her emotions into arrows that pierce his heart repeatedly. 

“I trusted you.” She says simply. 

“Yeah, you did, and you know what? We trusted you too.” He takes another bold step forward as she stares daggers in attempt to warn him off course. “We trusted you to acknowledge your limits and call it quits when you couldn’t carry on, we trusted you, at least a little bit, to  _ look after yourself —  _ and maybe some of your former passengers would have allowed you to be this level of self destructively  _ stubborn _ , but not us.” 

From the safety of the front room, Yaz’s jaw drops and Ryan grimaces through a whisper. “The man’s got nerve.” 

The Doctor just stares at Graham, mouth hanging slightly open and fingers loosening their grip on the countertop. 

“You mean too much to too many to toss around your life like it’s irrelevant, because it’s not, and you damn well know it’s not.” She closes her mouth, and a bit of the ferocity in her eyes is sapped out by something unreadable. “You’re needed, and I’ve got a hunch you’re not always a huge fan of that, but forget the universe for a moment — you did not bring us on board just to make us watch you kill yourself over some millennia-long buried guilt. You’re better than that, you’re _stronger _than that, and we love you too much to pretend like you’re not.” 

She’s struck for a long moment — he can practically see her reeling, stuttering, losing her fight.

“I don’t care if it’s one planet or a dozen. You had options, you weren’t doomed, but you took the path that you knew would be hardest on you just to ease the guilt. Did you really think you deserved that?” 

Her eyes are softer now, almost fearful. 

“You didn’t.” He lowers his tone a notch and feels the sea of fire burn up, finally drying out. “You don’t.” 

The Doctor swallows, gaze dropping away and hands falling from the countertop to plant themselves in the safety of her coat pockets. Graham realizes, with a sinking heart and sting in his eyes, that she doesn’t agree. 

“Doc, I won’t lie, we’d make that decision for you again in a heartbeat.” He lowers his head to try and catch her evasive eye. “And if that crosses a line, it crosses a line.” 

She looks at him for a long time, sagging into the kitchen counter at her back and once again, in a lighter sense, Graham’s reminded of a child. Innocent to selective complexities of life and blinded by her self constructed narrative for lack of better understanding — but he knows for a fact she has the tools to understand. He knows that deep down, she  _ does  _ understand. Why they care, why they fret, why they’d do something as preposterous as drag her protesting, half conscious body to safety against her will. She knows, and she pretends not to. 

And much like a child, she shrinks under the information that shouldn’t be a surprise, shouldn’t be  _ new.  _ Her ears flush red like she’s been scolded for sneaking a biscuit from the jar. 

“Yaz has been worrying herself sick over you, you know.” He needs to make sure she’s aware, needs to cover all his bases before they can continue forward with the next step, but it’s growing painful to add insult to injury, placing the cherry on top of her torment. Graham keeps his voice level and calm, not accusatory. “Hardly slept a wink, took some serious convincing whenever she did. I’m not telling you that to make you feel bad, but if you really need to be angry with someone, Doc, be angry with me and Ryan. Yaz doesn’t deserve it.” 

Whatever she’s feeling right now, Graham can tell it’s definitely no longer anger. 

She’s finding eye contact difficult, focusing instead on her sock-clad feet that shuffle nervously against the cold tiled floor. Graham only watches, silent and patient until she finds the will to speak. 

“ — I’m sorry.” 

Graham can’t suppress the slightest sigh of relief, because he can tell she means it.

Now, he’s just ready to see her back to her usual radiance. Guilt is an especially heart wrenching emotion when worn by the Doctor, and she can’t seems to shake it off these days. “It’s alright, love.” 

She draws clammy hands from her pockets and wipes them on her trousers, curling her fingers then dropping her hands back to her sides. 

“I need to go work on the navigation systems.” She keeps her head low as she trails past him, but Graham catches her arm before she can disappear. 

“No running off.” He points at her somewhat teasingly, but still serious. “Not yet. Not without us, and not until you’re back at a hundred percent. We can’t stop you from going back, but you’re not well enough to risk it right now.” 

She twists her head back to face him, an argument faltering before it’s even born, and she gives him a curt nod before hustling out the front door. 

Graham lets out a long, heavy breath, plucks an apple from the fruit bowl on the table and kneads at his forehead with his knuckles. When he returns to the front room, Ryan and Yaz are wide eyed and perplexed. 

He drops his hand, looking between the two of them expectantly. “What?” 

“Nicely done.” Yaz praises. 

“Where did that come from?” Ryan looks damn near impressed. 

“Low blood sugar.” He plops onto the sofa next to the kids and takes a hefty bite off the apple. Best to give the Doctor time alone to process for a bit, but he keeps an ear out for the possible groaning of the TARDIS engines just in case. “And I think I’ve just officially acquired a third grandkid.” 

“Only just now?” 

“Hold on,” Yaz perks up. “Does that make me the second?” 

“‘Course.” He mumbles through a mouthful, smiling with his eyes. “Sometimes the first, depending on how Ryan’s behaving that day.” 

“ _ Hey. _ ”

“But really, she’s family, that one.” He swallows his bite. “Obviously. Made properly official by the multiple heart attacks I’ve nearly had in the past five days.” 

“That’s been official for ages, you’re just old.” 

Yaz wrings her hands together uneasily with a glance at the front door. “I’m gonna go talk to her… she probably still shouldn’t be alone. At least not for long.” Graham holds out a hand to halt her before she can stand. 

“Think we should give her a little while first,” He says, lowering his voice even with the knowledge she’s far out out of range. “Let her cool off a bit, I doubt she’ll pull a runner. And we don’t have to worry ‘bout her toppling over anymore either, I don’t think.” 

“You sure?” Yaz winces. 

“Sure enough to finish my apple with a bit of peace of mind.” Graham takes another pointed bite and relaxes against the back of the sofa. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always appreciated, this chapter was especially fun to write and I’ve been excited to see what y’all think 🥺 
> 
> I’d say I’m gonna try and take my time on the ending but when I say things like that I end up posting within a couple days, but when I say I’ll be posting within a couple days I end up taking WEEKS. We’ll see what happens


	13. Forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blessings come few and far between, so she should hold them tight every chance she gets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally could have split this into two chapters but it all felt like it worked together as a solid conclusion, so tada, here's 7k. 
> 
> Thank you everyone SO much for being so kind and powering me through this!! Hope you enjoy the final chapter, ft. the Doctor moping, the TARDIS being iconic, and a shit load of family feels.

The Doctor only thinks twice about leaving without the others. 

Once, when she first steps into the TARDIS and catches the console for support on her way past, the lively humming and faintest of vibrations drawing her full attention immediately. She only doesn’t when she remembers the navigation systems are more out of sort than usual. 

A second time, when she’s hunching over the current mess that is the navigation systems, now disassembled and strewn across the lower level of the console room in methodized madness. This could take ages, this could take days or weeks or months or some other allotted amount of time far too long for her current attention span. Maybe she should just take the chance and go now before the fam comes to check on her. It would save her some grief, having to watch them watch _ her _aggressively swim upstream for a second time. 

There’s a pulse in the back of her head — almost a shock, but not quite real enough. Still hurts a bit, and narrowed eyes look to the ceiling accusingly. 

“Was that you?” She rubs the back of her head with a sour expression, and the atmosphere vibrates something close enough to a confirmation. 

“Take it you don’t approve, then?” She says it bitterly and a half-hearted snarl wrinkles her nose, but Graham _ did _tell her not to run off, and she did, more or less, agree. 

She has been a bit of a pain lately. Staying put is the least she can do. 

Graham’s words are like a layer of dead skin, dirty and unwanted, and she has half a mind to scrub them right off. That’s her goal, after a bit of unproductive tinkering she can’t seem to concentrate on, unsteady legs now carrying her through the corridor towards the nearest washroom. She needs a shower, she needs a clean and sterile slate of herself to move forward with. She needs to clear her head. 

But the washroom isn’t where she left it. She checks it’s most likely hiding place, then it’s second, and it’s not there either. 

“Seriously?” She raises tired eyes to the ceiling, but the TARDIS is oddly quiet. Brooding, she might say. 

“Are you cross with me or something?” The floor hums an elusive tune.

The Doctor sighs her defeat and pads further down the corridor, a bit aimless, only half an eye open for where the TARDIS has stashed the washroom.

Instinctively, naturally, she doesn’t want to think too hard on what Graham said. Because, of course, she knows he’s right and she _ hates _ it when Graham’s right. Or more specifically, she hates it when _ she’s _wrong. 

But she’s not, not entirely. She took the long road, sure, but was she expected to do nothing at all? 

She started this, after all. But maybe, _ maybe, _she could’ve been a little more considerate of the people that care about her. 

The notion sends a physical shudder through her bones and tightens the muscles in her shoulders, raising them. _ Care. _ People that _ care _about her. She’s a dangerous person to be cared for. 

They’re too good, is the problem. They’re good people, some of the best of the lot, and she knew that from the start, then allowed herself to disregard the obvious consequence. 

Plus, there’s three of them. She was outnumbered; she set herself up. 

Obviously they wouldn’t let her die a preventable death. _ Of course _ they stopped her when she wasn’t stopping herself, which at the end of the day, is the whole reason embedded in the unspoken laws of the universe that she’s not allowed to be alone. She forgets that sometimes. Okay -- she forgets that a lot of times. 

The Doctor feels a shift of light against her back, a presence in her vicinity that wasn’t there before, and turns around to investigate to find the washroom materialized behind a door that definitely wasn’t there a moment ago. Funny timing. 

“Are you rewarding me? Hold on —” She lifts a finger, skeptical. “Are you _ counseling _me?” 

A beam of light outlines the entrance in blue, a progressive shimmer going up, down, around, then fading away. 

“Take that as a yes.” Disgruntled, the Doctor sheds her coat on the way inside and plunks it on the countertop. 

Half an hour later she’s showered, feeling only slightly refreshed, smelling like coconut and chamomile and something less sensible and far less appealing she can’t scrub off. And when she goes in search of the console room, the corridor carries on and on like a loop of infinity. The TARDIS is interfering again. 

“What now?” She crosses her arms over her rainbow striped jumper, suspenders hanging loosely around her waist and coat draped over one shoulder. 

The TARDIS pushes herself into the Doctor’s mind quite forcefully, and it would hurt, if it didn’t feel so _ good. _ Her mind is suddenly flooded, attacked _ — _ warmth, _ safety _ , delight, _ mirth, _ affection _ , love — family. _

“I’m not angry with them anymore. Stop mothering me.” It’s mostly the truth, enough to not be considered a lie, but the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach hasn’t subsided completely. The image of her barely conscious body being forced into the TARDIS at the hand of her closest friends sits heavy and nauseating. 

_ You’re being dramatic. _

“No I’m not!” 

She walks on, checking every side door and forked path, but the console room is continuously unreachable. 

The Doctor grits her teeth, easing to a stop when she feels a tad out of breath. She’s still recovering, she knows. Still a bit shaky, still a touch out of sorts, and she could almost definitely use another power nap before she’s completely back to normal. 

There’s snippets of a feverish memory, something buried and clouded behind incoherence that she can’t hear, can’t picture without a blurred edge and missing pieces, but one fragment stands sharp and clear at the forefront. 

She closes her eyes to enhance it, knowing full well she shouldn’t, knowing full well it won’t help. 

_ Arms hooked under hers, secure and sturdy, but not safe. _

_ A blackened atmospheric converter, wisps of smoke emitting from the burnt up core, sparks emanating from the clawed top. A failure. _

_ Two pairs of unnaturally small eyes that shouldn’t hold the space for so many emotions. _

_ Hopelessness. Grief. Eyes that have reached the end of the road. So despaired, so shaken — so very let down. _

_ Eyes that grow smaller and smaller in size and larger and larger in despair as a distance between them and herself grows. The betraying hands drag her further and further away. _

_ “No.” She pleads. _

_ Hopeless. So hopeless. _

_ She’s supposed to be the antidote for hopelessness. _

The Doctor opens her eyes with a sharp intake of breath and a stumble to the left. 

Without a doubt, she’s going back. Not today, and not without the fam (she owes them at least a bit of cooperation) but she has to finish this. Properly. 

Different approach. Slightly more realistic strategy. She’ll get it right this time. 

And she can, without a doubt, trust her fam. She should never have blamed them for their actions when she left them no choice. 

The Doctor blinks, and the console room is right up ahead. 

“I don’t appreciate this.” The Doctor tosses her coat onto the console and descends the stairs to the lower level. “My internal monologue will get me somewhere sooner or later, with _ or _without a carrot on a stick.” 

Another half hour later and she’s half buried inside a maintenance panel, stripped wires and disassembled bits and bobs pooling around her knees. There are no shorts, no fuses blown, no overlying condition to indicate why the TARDIS’s navigation is suddenly one hundred percent unreliable. Usually it’s a solid seventy percent. She was alright with the seventy percent. 

“Doctor?” 

“—_ Ow. _” The Doctor’s head snaps straight up into a copper rod. “Yaz?” 

“Sorry.” There’s a somewhat nervous giggle that floats from the base of the stairs. “Am I interrupting?” 

She detangles herself from a mess of cables and worms her way out into open air, sitting up slowly as fingers knead at a soon-to-be bruise forming on her forehead.

Yaz, standing a safe distance away, is the picture of tainted innocence. Yaz, so pure of heart and immeasurably compassionate, to the point where her empathy has taken a mental toll. The Doctor feels like she’s taken that empathy and twisted it into anxiety, piled burden after burden onto Yaz’s shoulders until she’s all but collapsed. Yaz looks absolutely, simply, emotionally wrung dry. 

“‘Course not.” The Doctor raises her knees to rest her forearms atop them, shoulders relaxed and head tilted in an intentionally friendly, open manner. Compensating a bit for her ill reaction to Yaz’s ongoing kindness, because it was unwarranted, and plain _ rude, _and speaking of — 

“I’m sorry I snapped at you.” The Doctor says quietly, when Yaz dithers at the bottom step like she isn’t sure her company is acceptable. It breaks the Doctor’s hearts a little, seeing her tread such thin ice. “Graham was right, you didn’t deserve that.” 

“I...” Yaz stammers, arms folding a shield over her chest. “Can I sit with you a minute?” 

The Doctor nods wordlessly, a tad perplexed, but clears the space at her left free of tools and spare parts. 

Yaz slowly sits next to her, a couple more inches between them than what can be considered usual. 

“Would you have regenerated?” 

She wasn’t expecting that at all. The Doctor’s brows drop, confusion wrinkling her forehead, because she genuinely doesn’t understand. “What?” 

“On Mantrovon 7.” Yaz isn’t looking at her, hands fidgeting in her lap and fingers pulling at the skin next to her nails. “If we would’ve let you stay, would you have… regenerated? Changed?” 

The Doctor stammers silently, a bit caught off guard. She hadn’t properly covered that bit before — didn’t see a need to, really. She did say _ deadly _ , after all, as in, _ dead _dead, but she supposes that’s not a simple concept when entangled with herself. 

“Because I was thinking — ” Yaz goes on when the Doctor doesn’t respond immediately. “Is this the sort of thing you do? Do you just… throw away your bodies without a care because you know there’s a fresh one ‘round the corner?” 

She doesn’t know what to say to that. Yes, there is a certain sense of invulnerability that comes with the ability to regenerate — she can be a bit more reckless, cut it a bit closer than a human could, because save for the occasional _ serious pickle _, (see: the past five days) there is, in fact, always a fresh body around the corner. Even if she doesn’t want it. 

“I forget you’re an alien sometimes.” Yaz admits, looking at her hands. “I forget you’re… different. That you think differently. So I just want to understand.” And then she lifts her eyes finally, shining with the beginnings of weary tears. “B...Because I don’t know if I can keep traveling if this is normal for you.” 

And the Doctor thought Graham’s speech hurt. 

The sight of Yasmin Khan -- trying not to cry as she confesses she doesn’t know if she can bear the weight of the Doctor’s self-inflicted suffering a second time. _ That _hits about a thousand times harder than anything Graham could have ever come up with.

“Yaz…” The Doctor’s the one on thin ice now, tip-toeing ever so carefully, determined not to let those tears in Yaz’s eyes fall. “I’m not usually in that… specific scenario.” Her brain feels more like it’s malfunctioning the more she tries to speak. Every coherent thought is quiet, muffled, drowned out by a cloister bell singing _ YaziscryingYaziscryingYaziscrying… _

“Listen.” The Doctor takes a deep, shaky breath, and lets it out a little steadier. This is important, the way she says what she says right now is important. “Sometimes there are situations that are too dire to take risks. I couldn’t take _ any _of them with these people, not after I turned my back on them the first time.” 

Yaz nods faintly, unsatisfied. “I know.” 

“But those… situations don’t come about often.” The Doctor bites her lip. She isn’t doing this right. She wants to make Yaz feel better, but she doesn’t want to lie — not if reality affects her to this degree. 

_ You’re justifying yourself, _The TARDIS sounds in the back of her mind. 

_ I’m justified, _the Doctor bites back. 

_ No, you're not. _

“It was really... hard seeing you in such a bad way.” Yaz looks at her hands. “Not just because you were suffering and we couldn’t stop it, but because… _ you _could have done something about it. Graham’s right, you took the rougher road just so it would be rough.” 

The Doctor swallows hard. 

“I had other options.” She voices finally, an admission of defeat in itself. “And you’re right, I… ignored them.” The Doctor’s picking at her fingers too, now. She always was quick to pick up on bad habits. “Came up with reasons they wouldn’t work, and yes, I _ didn’t _want to risk it, I really didn’t, but…” 

“You had options.” Yaz finishes for her, and it really is as simple as that. 

The Doctor sighs, and shame creeps hot up the back of her neck. “I had options.” 

A loose silence settles in. By the time it ends, Yaz is sitting a bit closer. 

“Do you—” Yaz cuts herself short, and looks like she’s reconsidering the question. 

“What?” The Doctor prompts, despising the way Yaz seems to be searching high and low for the will to speak every word. She should never be afraid to speak her mind. 

“Do you care about your life?” Her voice is a lot quieter all of a sudden, as if frightened of itself. But her eyes are stronger, confident even, and meet the Doctor’s so intently it’s nearly blinding. “At all?” 

She nearly chokes. People usually aren’t that blunt. 

It’s not a simple question, and she wishes it weren’t a simple answer. 

_ No. _

But she can’t say that out loud, of course. If she does, she might just stop. 

Yaz seems to figure this out fairly quickly, and that tear finally falls. 

She takes the Doctor’s hand, warm, soft skin enveloping her fingers and squeezing gently. She’s numb in all but that one hand, every single sense, once again, blocked out by everything but _ love _in its most innocent form. It’s especially loud coming from Yaz. 

“Will you let us pick up some of the slack then?” 

She can hear her tears in her voice. 

“I don’t want to hurt you, Yaz.” She swallows, hand tightening around Yaz’s in case this is it. This is when Yaz, and probably the boys, find their reason not to stay, which is, of course, infinitely better than what will inevitably happen if they do. “I’ve hurt you already. Caring…_ ” _ She forces herself through the single word like a step up a steep mountain she’s been climbing for _ hours _ . “ _ Caring _ about me… gets you hurt.” _ In more ways than you know. _

“Only if you do things like this.” There’s a smile in her voice now, an olive branch threaded through her words, then it’s a bit more serious. “Only when you let your guilt determine your worth. You can’t do that.” 

Yaz is only twenty, isn’t she? Bit wise. 

“I’m trying.” She sighs quietly, staring at the back of Yaz’s hand in her own. 

“I don’t think you are, though.” 

The Doctor lifts her head, and Yaz’s tears are stagnant. She knows she’s winning. 

“Let us help. Just let us… care.” Her forehead scrunches a bit, searching the Doctor’s eyes. “I think you really need it.” 

The Doctor swallows her pride, her guilt, every other negative emotion under the sun, and nods. 

“Do you care about us?” 

She crumples a bit then, bereaved that Yaz would even question it. “So much.” 

“Then… look after yourself a little better.” Her hand earns a grounding squeeze once more. “Please?” 

Transfixed, stunned, _ soaring _ and inwardly _ weeping _ from the sheer amount of love she can feel through Yaz’s skin, the Doctor nods her consent. 

* * *

Two days later, she’s cleared for flight duty. 

There’s a whole speech, no — a whole _ lecture _before they go. Ground rules, guidelines, and she listens to every single one with only a minor twinge of impatience. 

_ No staying longer than an hour. _If you insist. 

_ You _ have _ to let us know when you’re not feeling well. _Fair enough. 

_ Rest up for a day or two in between. We can go to the planet of the purple sofas or something. _That’s probably actually a thing in some corner of the universe. 

This is, assuming she lands at the right time, in the right place. If she overshoots, if she _ gets it wrong _and fixes a future in place with her own eyes, there will be nothing she can do. She’s too interwoven in this planet’s timeline to add further insult to injury by tampering with it. 

The monitors aren’t working. Figures. With Yaz, Ryan and Graham right at her coattails, the Doctor steps outside onto grass that’s…

Soft. Watered. Turquoise. Smells of blueberries and life. 

Her eyes go straight up. The sky is… 

“The sky’s blue.” Ryan marvels, taking a couple awed steps with his head tilted back. “But like—”

“—_ Blue _blue. That’s a proper blue. Sorry, Doc, TARDIS might be taking second place on this one.” Graham squints a bit against the vibrant light. “Couldn’t even tell last time.” 

Vegetation is thriving, the sky is clear, the sun is actually _ visible, _and everything’s just — brighter. Like a new layer of paint over an otherwise dull, pale memory. A polychromed representation of life.

They’ve landed in the past. 

“So did you… undershoot?” Ryan guesses, struggling to catch the Doctor’s wandering attention. She sniffs at the air with a frown. 

Yaz treks up the same hill that blocked their view of the city the first time around, and the Doctor watches her go curiously. 

“There’s people now.” Yaz says, no joy in her tone at all. There would be people, in the early days. _ How early are we? _

But she can’t help but sniff the air again, because she swears, she _ swears, _ it doesn’t _ smell _like the past. The past has a distinctively aged scent; something like burnt toast mixed with someone else’s nostalgia. She’s getting none of that now. 

“Should we even be here if it’s the past?” Ryan inquires. 

The Doctor darts her tongue out to lick her index finger and holds it up to the wind. Her hearts stutter. 

Just to be sure… _ just _to be sure — because this would be some serious, ridiculous, completely off brand luck if she’s right — she crouches to pluck a blade of grass from the earth and sonic it. Her grip goes slack, and the blade floats to the ground.

“We’re in the future.” 

Yaz drops her head a bit in awe. “What?” 

“We’re in the _ future. _” 

“What? How?” Graham peeks over her shoulder as if the sonic will tell him itself. 

“I dunno, I…” It can’t be the future. It _ can’t _be the future. “Come on.” 

She lunges up the hill, teetering on the surface with bated breath and pounding hearts that don’t know whether to sing or cry. 

Before the fam have even caught up, she’s sprinting towards the city. She keeps them in range, just within earshot, and can hear them hollering and protesting as she speeds ahead without a care. 

People. Alive. _Living. _

The streets have lost their quiet atmosphere of fear — cars have had a wash and speed across dusty earth, loved ones socialize freely in the open outdoors and children entertain themselves on front lawns. There are smiles in the air, smiles in the cacophony of filters voices coming at her from every angle. A family somewhere is celebrating a birthday — she can hear this galaxy’s version of a celebratory jig being sung loudly and joyfully. 

“It’s so…” Ryan and the others have caught up. 

“Alive.” Yaz breathes, curiosity quicker than the thrill. “But how?” 

“I need to find Griffon.” Her brain is spiraling a mile a nanosecond, nothing makes sense, nothing — 

“Ghosttown HQ is right up there.” Ryan nods to the center of the city. 

“Think we’re gonna need a new name for it now.” Graham huffs.

The Doctor takes off again, kicking up dust, scuffing the flat earth in her hurry. She doesn’t stop running, not once, not for an extra breath nor the stitch in her side. She doesn’t know how long she’s been running by the time she’s skidding to a halt and banging on glass doors, but the fam evidently didn’t even try to keep up. 

“Oi, anyone home!?” She cups her hands around her eyes and peers inside. 

“The school closes at the end of each week.” 

Branton’s voice whips her around. 

His arms are stacked with boxes that his eyes hardly peek over, transfixed like he’s similarly questioning reality. 

“Branton?” He’s older than last time. It’s hard to say by how much, she’s really not up to speed on the laws of age progression on this end of the universe, but the lines at his brow are deeper. His black hair has lost almost all of the rest of its color, and he looks — a bit withered, but not worn. 

“Doctor.” He sets the boxes at his feet and wipes his hands on his trousers, eyes never once leaving hers. 

“How…” She doesn’t even know where to start. “How long?” 

“Seven years.” He informs, equally mesmerized. 

“What happened?” 

Branton pushes a pair of glasses a bit higher up the bridge of his nose, and he’s made a remarkable switch from stunned to uneasy. “Maybe you should come inside.” 

And she does, numb legs carry her after Branton through hallways that have been well dusted, past framed pictures that have been righted. It smells different in here too — cleaner, fresher. The building could be brand new, but she knows it’s the same one. 

Branton leads her to his office — a bit updated, slightly revamped and rearranged, stashing unopened boxes in an unoccupied corner. He sits down and gestures for her to sit opposite, but the Doctor shakes her head urgently. 

“_What happened?_” 

Branton leans back in his chair — relaxed. At ease. 

“Griffon fixed it.” 

The Doctor‘s mouth falls open. “What?” 

“Griffon. He fixed the machine.” Branton places his glasses on the desk. “Or rather, he built a new transmitter. That was the trickiest part.” 

“That’s not possible.” The Doctor challenges, because she really doesn’t believe it, even with evidence of a prospering civilization left and right. “That’s the whole reason we needed the TARDIS — your technology over here is good, but not TARDIS good. You didn’t have the tools for that.”

“You’re wrong.” Plain and matter-of-fact, but not unkind. 

The Doctor falters, reeling in a bit. “Am I?” 

“He figured it out.” The corner of Branton’s lips twitch with a ghost of a grin. The closest she’s ever seen on him. “When the machine didn’t work the first time around he was… angry.” 

The Doctor’s shoulders sag a bit. He would be, she supposes. Of course he would be. 

“Not with you.” Branton hurries to explain. “He was angry with how close the two of you were, how close the machine was to working. He was determined to figure out a way to make it work on his own, and… well, he did.” 

Again, the Doctor can only stammer. “How?” 

“I couldn’t tell you. I didn’t understand a fraction of it.” He admits, folding his hands. “He spent weeks theorizing, working, and he did it. He fixed the machine, and built a new transmitter.” 

For a moment the Doctor can, truly, only nod. Her processing power has plummeted to a solid twenty percent. 

“Well,” She pushes her hair out of her eyes with a slow hand. He did it. _ He saved them. _ “Maybe he’s a bit cleverer than me after all.” 

Branton’s lips twitch with a sad sort of amusement, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“Don’t suppose he’s around so I could tell him myself?” 

Branton sighs, neutral and controlled, but the _ sad _is sticking out a bit more now. 

“Griffon died, Doctor.” 

His words are like water spilling onto the circuit board, and the Doctor’s jaw snaps shut. 

“His transmitter worked a bit different from yours.” Branton once again nods to the chair at the Doctor’s right, and this time she sinks into it heavily, gazing blankly ahead. “Wasn’t immediate. It took a while, and he _ knew _it would take a while but he didn’t know — how long.” 

The Doctor breathes out slowly. “So he tested it himself.” 

Branton nods. “He waited a few weeks, picked a number of days at random, really, and just went outside. Said he wasn’t coming back in without answers.” Withered hands fold together and come to rest beneath his chin. “Found his body three days later on the other side of the city.” 

Apologies are never enough, but too often, they’re all she has. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” 

“What?” 

Branton leans forward in his seat a bit, and there’s a sudden intensity behind the restraint she’s accustomed to. 

“Griffon was my closest friend in the end.” He begins steadily. “And I’ve had seven years to process my grief. Took me most of them to realize and _ respect _ that he died doing what he always would’ve done. Trying his best. And… it ended up being enough.” 

Griffon died because of her, and the rest of Mantrovon 7 lived because of him. 

“I only gave it a few days before trying again, went outside for long enough to see if it worked, and it did.” Branton’s lips curl into one of those _ despite everything _smiles. Proud and reminiscent. “He was only days off.” 

“I should never have left him in that position.” The Doctor bows her head, ashamed, _ so _very ashamed. “I should never have left either of you in that position.” 

“Doctor, what _ you _ did as well, was enough.” 

“It obviously wasn’t.” 

Branton hardens for an instant, jaw clenched and hands tightening their grip on one another, but it softens as quick as a flip of a switch. “The stories about you aren’t all true, are they?” 

She doesn’t read the stories, so she wouldn’t know. 

“They say you’re a savior, an impossible hero for the impossible battles, but you’re not. You’re just a person who tries harder than anyone else ever would.” 

Her self-directed frustration doesn’t budge. “I’m still sorry. I should’ve done more.” 

“Doctor, this planet nearly killed you, and I watched you do everything you possibly could to stick around for the sake of us. Griffon told me how bad it got sometimes when I wasn’t around, and seven years later, I still can’t believe you stayed.” 

“I left you, an entire planet, to die.” She lifts her head, eyes clouded. “All that time ago, the first time you asked for help, I turned my back. I couldn’t do it again.” 

“Even though it would’ve killed you to stay.” 

She clenches her fists, digs them into her knees. “I could’ve done more… I should’ve—”

“— Doctor.” 

“I…” 

“You’re forgiven.” 

Her next breath catches in her throat. 

The Doctor can’t remember a time those words were directed at herself. 

“Don’t carry that around with you anymore.” Branton’s unwavering, stoic. “You’ve put yourself through enough agony as it is. What you did for us seven years ago, in the end, was _enough. _It was thanks to you that Griffon had the basis to save Mantrovon, and even if it wasn’t…” He stammers for a second. “I now know from experience that the stories are also wrong about you being… cruel. A few of them used some intimidating titles to say the least — Destroyer of Worlds was amongst them. Might’ve allowed that one specifically to cloud my judgement a bit before I even met you. 

“I was wrong, and you didn’t deserve any of what you put yourself through for us. I’ll be eternally grateful that you did it anyways.” 

The Doctor swallows, something in her snapping, fizzling into a blurred line between weakness and openness. She smiles something slight that vanishes in a blink, gaze trailing back to the floor. “You sound like my friends, now.” 

“Good friends of yours, those three.” Branton relaxes into the back of his seat. “And I’m glad they took you home. One thing the stories got right was that you are, more than anyone, necessary to the universe. Can’t have you wasting away for the sake of a little planet in a little galaxy.” 

She’s necessary. That’s not as much of a punch in the stomach as it was before. 

Forgiveness. Was that all she needed? 

Distantly, through walls and empty corridors, she hears the fam calling her name, banging eager fists in the front doors. 

“Speaking of.” She chuckles quietly, mesmerized by the twisting of her own hands in her lap. 

“Better go on home before you start feeling the radiation again.” Branton rises from his seat, extending a hand to the Doctor where she’s still slumped in hers. 

She looks at it for a long moment, and stands to clasp it loosely in her own. 

“Thank you, Doctor.” He says it seriously with a firm handshake and a fixed appreciation that will last generations. “I mean it. Thank you.” 

She stares at his hand for another beat of silence then curls her fingers tighter, lifts her eyes to his. “You’re welcome.” 

“And I, in the kindest way possible, hope to never see you again.” He laughs then, bright and easy. She never heard him laugh before. “You keep yourself and any telepathic mates far away from this place, understood?” 

A tiny smile just barely finds its way to her eyes. “Understood.” 

* * *

Every now and then she has this certain look on her face. She doesn’t mean to do it — she’s just thinking, processing, lost in her head — but the fam goes awfully quiet when she does. 

She must be doing it now, because all three of them walk silently just a short distance behind her on the way back to the TARDIS. Have been silent since she first walked out the doors, uncertainty flickering in concerned eyes that steer clear of her own. 

Only minutes in, Yaz is the one to break it, taking a couple extra strides until they’re walking parallel. 

“You okay?” 

It’s so soft, so kind, so _ Yaz, _and it breaks her out of her spell. 

“Yeah.” The Doctor lifts her chin, shoulders straightening a bit, then flashes her a reassuring smile. 

“So what actually happened?” Graham and Ryan catch up on her other side. 

“Griffon fixed the converter, _ and _ built a new transmitter. Somehow. _ Genius _ stuff, really. Haven’t a clue how he did it.” 

A beat, expectant and patient. Ryan, the most impatient of the lot, gives her a look. 

“And?” 

The Doctor swallows before responding flatly. “Griffon’s dead.” 

“Wh—” 

“He died a good man.” She keeps her eyes straight ahead. “Very grateful for him. He pulled Mantrovon through, all on his own.” 

A silence again, pregnant and uncertain. 

“I’m sorry, Doctor.” Yaz is quiet, careful. 

“Yeah.” 

“It wasn’t your fault.” She closes her fingers around the end of the Doctor’s sleeve, squeezing lightly as if to snag her attention. “It—”

“--Don’t really want to talk about it.” The Doctor dips her head, permitting a dangling curtain of blonde to shield her face from view. “But I’m alright, Yaz.” She’s sulked long enough. 

Time to move on. Time to force her head above the water and tread it’s surface until she finds her footing. But she really is okay, she thinks. She could use a cup of tea and some distracting company, but the Doctor, somehow, feels relatively at peace. Genuinely feels like her work here is done, and to some degree, worthy. Enough. 

“Really?” 

The Doctor smiles at her, easy and reassuring. “Really.” Yaz’s lips twitch in relief. 

By the time they reach the TARDIS, no one’s raised the topic again. The Doctor shrugs off her coat and tosses it over the console, but heads for the lower level instead of accompanying it. 

“Oi, where do you think you’re going?” Graham stops at the top step. “Need to get back to Sheffield before you go all wobbly again.” 

“I’m just taking another quick look at the navigation systems!” She defends. “Unless you want to end up fourteen miles outside Sheffield forty years in the future.” 

“Quick look?” Ryan repeats like a challenge. 

“Very quick.” 

Satisfied enough but keeping her within range, the fam entertain themselves on the main level while the Doctor strips apart the navigation circuit for a third time. 

She’s sprawled out on her back, wedged deep in the inner-workings of the TARDIS with hands moving on autopilot as they disassemble and reassemble, poke and prod. She knows she’s overlooked something. 

“Can I keep you company?” The abrupt sound of Yaz’s voice doesn’t catch her off guard this time. 

“Always.” The Doctor smiles, still buried deep in a panel with coils and wiring tangled around her legs. 

She hears the quiet shift of movement, Yaz’s footsteps as they come to a stop somewhere just outside the Doctor’s field of view. 

“You figure out whatever you’re trying to figure out yet?” Another shift as she lowers herself to the floor, voice a tad clearer, and the Doctor touches her chin to her chest to see Yaz peering curiously through the opened panel the Doctor occupies. 

“Not quite. Probably won’t be able to, actually.” She braces two hands on the sturdy insides of the casing and uses it to push herself into open air. “Still don’t know what Ryan or I did that landed us there in the first place, but us arriving late just now was probably the TARDIS’s doing.” 

She knows Yaz is grateful they didn’t land in the proper timeline, knows she would’ve managed to get herself stuck in a spiral of even worse anxiety if the Doctor had been left to save Mantrovon by her own devices after what she’d already endured. But she only smiles at the Doctor now, small and forced, like she doesn’t want to admit it.

The Doctor passes a hand over her forehead to wipe away grease that she only succeeds in streaking across her skin, then draws a rag from her pocket to wring her hands clean. “Yaz?” 

Yaz turns her head, open and curious.

She scrubs evasively at clean hands. “I never thanked you for taking care of me.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” She tilts her head kindly. “And Ryan and Graham helped just as much.”

“And I’ll be thanking Ryan and Graham later — but I’m a bit more focused on you.” She grips the rag tight in both hands. “You didn’t have to look after me, but you did. Made it a bit easier to get through the day, won’t lie to you.” Her gaze falters nervously, but she forces it back up. “I didn’t—” _ I didn’t deserve it, _she almost says. “I really appreciate it.” She says instead. “I know I didn’t make it easy.” 

Yaz’s laugh is soft and sweet. “You are a bit stubborn.” 

“And I’ve had loads of people tell me that. Lost count when I hit four hundred and six.” 

“You believe us now?” 

“Only ‘cause it’s you.” The Doctor says with exaggerated affection, bumping Yaz’s shoulder with her own. 

Yaz doesn’t depart when she eventually works herself back inside the maintenance panel, and the Doctor hears a muffled clanking as Yaz presumably examines her mess of supplies. She’s got a wide ranging collection acquired from a few dozen different galaxies, many of them serving the same purpose, she just especially likes the ones that light up and make a noise. 

The company is appreciated, even in its state of silence. It’s easy and natural, and she finds that Yaz’s nearby presence sends a sense of calm pouring through the veins of her subconscious. Her mind doesn’t wander, reel or stutter over past events, just relaxes. 

“Anything I can do to help?” Yaz asks after a bit. “We probably should be going soon.”

The Doctor wriggles her way back out. “Nah, think I’m finally callin’ it quits.” She wipes greasy hands on her trousers, _ then _sees the rag discarded at her side for the very purpose. “I’ll try again some other time.” 

“I’ll help clean up at least, it’s a right state down here.” Yaz rises to her knees and starts to shuffle and sort through the supplies scattering the floor, not bothering to stop and make sense of any of them. “Er… Doctor? Shouldn’t this probably get tossed?” 

The Doctor looks over curiously, disposing of her armful of cables and moving in for closer inspection. 

There’s a thin wire pinched between Yaz’s fingers. What would normally pulse a vibrant blue is dull and colorless, frayed at one end. Clearly burnt up and unusable. 

“Should’ve been.” Lines at her forehead deepen as she plucks the wire from Yaz’s hand. “This is a _ very _old recursive time filament.” 

“A what?” 

“It’s what moves vortex energy through the proper channels to make sure we end up in the right place. Which we rarely do, but that’s a whole other problem. Anyway,” She cocks her head thoughtfully, twirling the filament between her thumb and forefinger. “They burn up every few centuries, but they’ve got a good memory.” 

Yaz blinks slowly. “What does that even mean?” 

The Doctor twists the wire back and forth, examining it from every angle. “Ryan and I replaced them all, and then I replaced them all again just now, _ just _in case. You got this from the junk pile, yeah?”

Yaz grimaces. “It all looks like junk, Doctor.” 

She shakes her head, gaze narrowing, lips pinched in a deep concentration. 

“Well, I’m an idiot.” She almost laughs, because it really is quite funny how mundane the climax ended up being. “Ryan! Come down here a sec!” 

There are two sets of footsteps that can be heard descending the stairs, and Ryan soon appears at the base with Graham a couple steps behind. “What’s up?” 

“Rule one of dematerialization circuit maintenance: always throw out your old recursive time filaments.” She holds the wire up with a shy smile. 

“Well obviously.” Ryan steps closer, eyeing the filament with clear confusion. When the Doctor doesn’t elaborate, he sighs. “Doctor, I don’t know what you’re on about.” 

“We replaced these the other day, remember?” Still seated on the floor, she scoots to one side so that the maintenance panel is in clear view. 

“What do they do again?” 

“I’ll bust out the flashcards later. My _ point, _” She shifts to sit comfortably on her heels and holds the filament up pointedly. “Is that Yaz just found this. I went ahead and replaced them all again just to cover my bases, and I must’ve gotten this one out of the circuit just now. Didn’t even notice it had burnt out. ‘S dark in there.” 

“So you’ve got faulty wiring.” Graham says plainly. “Is that the moral of the story here?” 

“No. Ryan, _ we—” _ She gestures madly between the two of them. “Obviously _ installed _ a burnt one on the first go ‘round. These things take ages to go bad, and about three times that long to look like this.” She holds it a little higher, charred and rough looking. When no one seems to be connecting the dots, she lets out a short breath. “Don’t you see? This is why we ended up on Mantrovon in the first place! Recursive time filaments have an internal memory that can last well past a burnout. They _ technically _can still get the job done but you’re not meant to use old ones because all that memory is still stuffed in there like a backed up printer. You try and print something new, but the oldest one in the queue comes out instead. If you’re lucky.” She makes sure the wire goes safely back in the junk pile. “Really did a number on that one. Sorry, little guy.” 

“Huh.” Yaz eyes it a moment longer. “So just a coincidence?” 

“Pretty much.” The Doctor presses her hands into her knees, bracing to stand. “When I first received that distress call the TARDIS must’ve automatically stored the coordinates, and they’ve just been sittin’ there ever since. Must’ve been at the front of the queue when Ryan and I installed that thing.” She shakes her head in exasperation. “Seriously, I’m usually good about throwin’ those out as soon as they’ve expired. Just got my wires crossed, I suppose. Literally.” 

“Well, least that’s not on me.” Ryan crosses his arms smugly. “Supervisor takes the fall.” 

“You’re in the clear, Ryan.” The Doctor smiles at him, pushing off her knees to rise to her feet. She gets a tease of a headrush when she stands, a familiar twinge in the back of her head, and squints eye one uncomfortably. 

“You okay?” Yaz takes a small step forward, eyeing her carefully. 

“I’m f—” Instincts kick in but she cuts herself short, admitting with a sigh. “Bit headachey, actually.” 

“Right, well we’ve seen more than enough of this place.” Graham is already returning to the main level. “Get us out of here, Doc. Your headaches are giving _ me _a headache.” 

She laughs at that, massaging absentmindedly at her temple as she ascends the stairs to join him up top. Yaz stays extra close, just in case, and the Doctor’s hearts swell. 

She takes them home, and mere nanoseconds pass between the thud of materialization and the anxious hands that usher her out of the TARDIS. She’s fine, actually, genuinely fine, but they probably won’t believe her if she says it. So she lets them fuss a bit, lets Yaz push her onto Graham’s sofa and removes her coat upon instruction. Graham makes tea, and she accepts it without hesitation. Ryan goes off on a tangent regarding a video game that he’s, quote, ‘absolutely positive’ she’ll enjoy. She holds that loosely, but agrees to his request for her to play it with him some day. He gets so excited when he talks about it. 

Yaz plops onto the sofa at the Doctor’s left with a heaping plate of custard creams, and _ stars _ , the Doctor could _ kiss her _right now. She shoves two into her mouth at once, groaning something dramatic and appreciative as the taste encompasses her senses. 

She doesn’t deserve them. She knows that for a fact, and shoves another biscuit in her mouth. 

But that’s alright, the Doctor supposes. There are a lot of things she doesn’t deserve that she ends up with anyways, and the fam are just a tad too brilliant for her to be willing to give them up any time soon. Blessings come few and far between, so she should hold them tight every chance she gets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK Y'ALL SO MUCH FOR STICKING WITH THIS!!


End file.
